


Closer

by RiverTalesien



Category: The 100 (TV), clexa - Fandom
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending, Artist Clarke Griffin, Clexa, Clexa Week, Clexa Week 2018, Clexaweek2018, Cooking, Cunnilingus, Day 6, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, F/F, Face-Fucking, Face-Sitting, Famous, Fisting, Food, Masturbation, Modern Setting Clarke Griffin/Lexa, Oral Sex, Power Bottom Clarke, Service Top Lexa (The 100), Sex Worker, Smut, ghau, mysterious lexa, pianist!Lexa, smut with feelings, the good head au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-06
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-01-30 06:57:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 29,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12648483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiverTalesien/pseuds/RiverTalesien
Summary: Hi this is my first fic, please be gentle. :-)This is largely smut, but I hope it has feelings. Clarke is an artist/sex worker who is becoming (sexually) attached to a newish, mysterious client, Lexa (of course).  Lexa's sexual proclivities tend toward comfort seeking than pleasure seeking.  There might be an Obstacle, but this is Clexa.I would love to hear what you guys think!rivertalesien.tumblr.com





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> Questions or anything? hmu on Tumblr @rivertalesien

The arrangement was simple, something she craved and today she was on fire. 

 

Waking from sordid dreams to ruined underwear made Clarke Griffin a little anxious, especially if there wasn’t time to deal with it, but this was Saturday. Saturdays were empty, free of any other clients, and, therefore, perfect.

Throughout her shower she considered taking care of it, but the promise of _that mouth_ , held her in check. She could keep herself together for another hour if necessary. Anything beyond that, there were no guarantees. She would melt from the inside out if she had to wait any longer. 

Toweling off, she dismissed an earlier notion of casual wear, jeans, in favor of a loose, flowing skirt paired with a matching top with a scoop neck. She enjoyed the tease of her ample cleavage with a revealing, lacy bra and went with the red. No underwear, of course. There was no need for such pointless niceties. 

 

Barely thirty minutes later, she was in her Lyft, on her way to a few hours of well-paid head-clearing sanity and physical gratification. 

 

=========================================================

 

Her thighs squeezing gently but firmly around the brunette’s head, Clarke’s fists gripped the curly locks as she ground herself insistently against the most generous mouth and the most skilled tongue she’d ever known (in her experience, that was near impossible). She was _so close_ but she didn’t want to reach her peak just yet. She closed her eyes and forced herself to hang on just a little longer. Enjoy the firm, wet glide just a little more. It didn’t hurt that her client preferred it this way. No pain whatsoever.

Long fingers kneaded her exposed breasts as they spilled from her bra and she knew if she looked down, she would see those mesmerizing clear green pools gazing up at her, intently. Her client’s eyes were her most immediately defining feature, and possibly her most beautiful, but, for Clarke, very little compared to the beauty of her _mouth_. 

The tenderness and fullness of her lips, the wonderfully long (and well-exercised) tongue, the way she could stroke through her for seemingly hours, without stop, filled her body with an overwhelming warmth. She could never think of her client without thinking of her mouth, of kissing her, sucking on that lower lip and biting it until it bled. She loved the pillowy softness and the wild sweetness of using that mouth, pushing her pussy against it, grinding, circling, thrusting, until she exploded with the force of pleasure. Until she could no longer hold herself together and, shaking from head to foot, she would cry out in a long, unbroken wail of joyful completion. 

“Yes, yes, yes, don’t fucking stop, don’t you _fucking stop_.”

 

She knew she must sound like a porn loop, but it hardly mattered to her. What mattered were the firm undulations of that magical tongue, working her steadily toward another glorious climax. 

Beneath her, her client’s arms wrapped tightly around her thighs, holding her in place as she stiffened her tongue, allowing Clarke to ride against it, hard and fast, until she pressed her lips around her clit and began to _suck_.

“Fuuuuck. Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”

 

Clarke’s orgasm hit and she dropped herself further on the other woman’s mouth, likely cutting off air, but she couldn’t stop the pulsing need to squeeze, grind and thrust until she was utterly spent. 

 

“Jesus. So. Fucking. Good.”

 

Raising herself slightly, Clarke looked down at the dripping mess she’d made on the woman’s flushed face, how her fluids ran down her chin, pooling into the hollow of her throat. She smiled.

 

“You want to wear it?”

 

The client, staring, breathless, nodded. 

 

Slowly lowering herself again, Clarke circled her hips, rubbing her wetness all over her client’s face, as if she was marking her, moving gently but firmly, only stopping when she felt herself growing dry and sticky, then raising herself again, just hovering over the woman’s mouth. 

 

“I’m ready whenever you are.” 

 

=======================================================

 

Clarke’s clients were varied in their tastes and inclinations, and some more fun and inviting than others, but few had been quite so interested or invested in making her orgasm (and all the ways she preferred to achieve it) the total focus of their arrangements. Not that her clients weren’t often caring or concerned with it, it was just rarely what their scene was about.

Being with “The Commander” (a Company nickname) was like a little holiday from all the usual pressures of the outside world. Though she knew better than to develop any real attachment, she looked forward to the Saturday sessions, filled as they often were with enormous sexual satisfaction and emotional contentment; a dangerous mix for someone in her line of work. 

 

=========================================================

The afternoon was waning into early evening as Clarke collapsed from her latest orgasm; shivering delightfully and stretching like a spoiled cat against the cushion of her client’s mattress, she almost purred. 

“That was insane, thank you.”

 

The Commander, kneeling beside the bed, laid her head forward onto Clarke’s bare thigh, rubbing her nose lightly across it, before growing still against cooling skin. 

“You’re welcome.”

Her voice was quiet and her eyes fluttered open to gaze up at her, a little shyly, as if this were their first time, as if she were fearful of failure. 

Running her fingers through the slightly damp locks draped across her thigh, Clarke knew better than to indulge in too much fantasy for too long. This woman desired something deeper than just to give pleasure: there was a need to be surrounded, weighed down and even cradled. There were sessions when the woman did nothing but suckle softly at Clarke’s breasts, caressing them with her face and hands, pressing her face into them so desperately sometimes: seeking a comfort that constantly eluded her. 

She noted The Commander was much the same about food: she enjoyed cooking, preparing and prepping, building flavor with care and intention, showing quiet delight when Clarke enjoyed something, taking pleasure in providing (and being provided) gentle sustenance. 

She almost dreaded the meal, sometimes, as it meant the end of their session and the start of another week of indulging delicate egos, but tonight would be different.

“Can you stay? I’m happy to pay for Sunday if that’s alright.”

 

Clarke did her best to hide her surprise. She never did sleepovers, not even for her long timers. Sharing a bed in sleep was risky for obvious reasons, but even the not so obvious, the impression of intimacy where there really wasn’t any could mislead the more naïve and lead to unfortunate misunderstandings. No, Clarke was a consummate professional and sleeping with a client was simply not done. 

But The Commander wasn’t any usual client and in the few weeks since their first meeting, Clarke had certainly developed an unprofessional fondness, though she always told herself it was merely for the body-shaking bliss of it all. 

 

“That’s not something I do with my clients. I’m sure you can understand why.”

 

Frowning, her client nodded then collected their plates, placing them in the suite’s kitchen sink. 

“If you want me to come by again tomorrow, that’s fine, but I won’t be spending the night.” 

“I see. I only offered out of convenience. You could sleep in the room alone, I’d be happy to take the couch. But I understand if that makes you feel unsafe.” 

“It’s company policy.” 

“I would like you over tomorrow, if it’s alright.”

 

Clarke rose from her seat at the breakfast bar and walked around the island, bringing them face-to-face, wrapping her arms around her client’s shoulders. She smiled a little as The Commander’s face grew pink when eyes dropped down to her exposed cleavage, still wrapped in the bright red bra she’d picked out earlier. 

“Same time? Any special requests?”

 

The Commander’s hands were gently cupping her breasts. Her face dipped for a moment to skim her lips across their swells, then looked up again with hooded eyes.

“Same time, please.”

 

Clarke grinned at The Commander’s neediness, and pushed herself gently away, backing into the island, stretching her arms across it.

“You just ate but you look awfully hungry again.”

Drumming her fingertips against the countertop, Clarke made her invitation. Dropping to her knees, The Commander accepted. 

“I don’t normally take dessert, but you’re really too tempting.”

 

Moments later, with her skirt flung to the floor and her client’s face trapped snugly and pleasurably between her legs, Clarke Griffin wondered if a little policy change might be in order.


	2. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The following day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow thank you all for the wonderful comments on the first chapter!! I hope you continue to like. 
> 
> This one's a little shorter, so let me know if you'd like chapter 3 a little early. ;-) 
> 
> Hmu on tumblr @rivertalesien

Sundays were supposed to be her day off. No clients, no calls. She enjoyed her time alone, either lazing in bed with the remote or spending time on one of her commissions. It helped her recharge or come up with topic ideas for when she recorded her weekly sex seminar podcast on Monday. She really didn’t like any interruption to this routine, not even for her closest friends. 

But the sex was too good and, she was learning to admit to herself, there was something cleansing about it. 

The money played its role, of course, but with this client, there was definitely a “more” that she couldn’t put aside. 

She’d started with the company to help pay for college, to keep her independent of her family, who struggled from time to time, and to further explore herself as a sexual person. She wanted to meet people, learn with them, from them, and, thanks to Raven’s interest in podcasting, share what she had learned. She knew there were workers with greater and deeper struggles, people with lighter loads or more serious aims. She’d met so many on her campus, some she shared more than mere conversations with, and the further she ventured, the further she wanted to go. 

But she rarely did. 

Once she put herself on the path, she rarely allowed herself to explore the more extreme limits of her sexual imagination with actual lovers (or clients). Clarke learned over time that she needed to keep some parts of her nature to herself. Sharing it might spoil the fantasies that were unique to her. 

So why was this client so different? 

 

It would be easy to point out her attractiveness, her gentleness, her technique, as the selling points. But there was more to it. This woman wasn’t living out a fantasy with her. She wasn’t seeking pleasure, distraction or release. There was something deeper going on, an elusive hunger Clarke’s body was only partly able to alleviate. 

Clarke believed sex could be a great kindness, a balm, and a source of exploration that could open a person’s heart and mind and calm inner existential storms. Sex was more than just a distraction or a release; it could be a defining connection to the world. For Clarke, there was nothing empty or shallow about sex, fun as it might be. Orgasms were a beautiful gift one could give oneself or others or receive from others. The tenderness of one human body toward another was essential for survival. 

She felt the deep crisis in her client, something long unspoken, and felt compelled to connect with it. Could she help the way her own body responded? It was the push and pull of a tide, moon-locked. 

 

“She’s not strong with verbal cues, she’d like you to lead. She didn’t describe herself as submissive, but there’s some sensory issues going on, so I think these requests are part of that.”

“What do you mean by sensory issues?”

“The whole interview she was playing with a rubber band, knotting it around her fingers and occasionally rubbing the inner lining of her coat. She said it calms her. She used to do some sensory deprivation stuff, like those closed water tanks they put people into? She wrote down a fascination with smothering, or being held down. She definitely wants to try some squeeze play.” 

Clarke looked over Tris’ notes, her finger landing on _dietary interests._

“What’s this one about? Food allergies?”

Tris shook her head.

“No, she likes to cook, wants to know if you have any preferences. And any allergies, that might be good to know.” 

Clarke smiled. 

“If she can make carbonara, might be a match made in heaven.” 

========================================================

The following afternoon, she entered the hotel suite her client called home to the smells of something cooking; she was glad to have skipped lunch. 

A drop in temperature and a flurry of snowflakes decided the layers she wore today (save the last, but that would be a surprise, later) and she laid her scarf and overcoat on one of the kitchen stools as she watched the brunette gently flip a sauté pan of shrimp. 

“Smells good.” 

_The Commander_ greeted her with a shy smile and tired eyes that spoke of too many sleepless nights, before turning back to her work. 

“I hope you like it. A little comfort food.” 

A long plate sat on the stove, coated in a warm, yellowish liquid. The sautéed shrimp were gently placed into it, followed by several pieces of slim-sliced toast. She turned and placed the plate on the kitchen island and grabbed two forks from a drawer. Clarke leaned in with an appreciative smile.

“What is it?”

“Something my dad used to make when he was feeling out of it. Always cheered him up. It’s just cooked egg yolk on the bottom. Try it.”

Taking a fork, Clarke poked at the delicate offering, dabbing it gently into the egg before taking a bite. The flavor made her hum, happily. 

“That’s really nice.” 

The Commander took a bite as well, using the toast to wipe up a bit of the egg. 

The sat together for a few moments, silently enjoying the shared meal before Clarke swiped the last shrimp and held it up to her client’s mouth, offering it to her with a steady gaze that brooked no challenge.

“I insist.” 

The brunette did not argue, but leaned forward and took the last bite without blinking. 

 

Clarke watched as her client cleared the kitchen space before following her out to the living area, seating herself on the couch as the other woman gazed out at the snowfall. 

Clarke noticed she was wearing clothes from the night before, shirt and trousers rumpled, and her hair’s braid redone too many times. 

Her voice was barely above a whisper. 

 

“Thank you for coming.”

 

Clarke smirked, pulling off her socks. The fireplace opposite was a full blaze and added much warmth to the room.

 

“Well, I do enjoy coming, it’s kind of my thing.” 

 

The brunette smiled back and seated herself on a cushion near the fire. 

 

“And I enjoy that you enjoy it. It’s lovely to watch you.”

 

Clarke pulled off her sweater, revealing a form-fitting tank underneath. 

 

“Is that all? You just like to watch me?” 

 

The brunette ducked her head and blushed a little. 

 

“No, well, yes, I do like to watch you, but that’s not really all.”

 

Rising, Clarke slowly walked over to where the other woman sat, and gently carded her hands through tangled locks, removing the hair tie. 

 

“What else do you like?” 

 

The brunette’s eyes closed at the touch of Clarke’s fingers in her hair.

 

“The way you taste. Your scent. How soft your skin is.”

 

“Anything else?”

 

There was a slight pause as the other woman looked up with clear eyes of longing.

 

“I think you’re very beautiful.” 

 

For a moment, there was only a heartbeat between them. 

Sinking down into the woman’s lap, straddling her, Clarke wound her arms around her client’s neck and leaned in, cheek to cheek.

 

“Are you going to watch me come, today?” 

 

Her jaw gone slack, the brunette could only nod. 

 

Shifting to the other cheek, Clarke brought her lips close to the brunette’s ear, almost whispering.

 

“Are you going to make me come?”

 

Strong hands gripped her bottom, as her client rose, holding her up and she walked them to the bedroom and gently laid Clarke down on the bed. 

Kneeling down beside the bed, her client looked up at her, a little expectantly. 

 

Sensing a shift in the woman’s demeanor, Clarke sat up and tenderly touched the woman’s face, brushing stray locks out of her eyes. 

 

“Talk to me. Tell me.” 

 

The woman swallowed, lowing her head into Clarke’s lap, while her hands remained stiffly at her sides. She seemed to be rooting there, pushing forward until her face was firmly in the juncture of her crotch, and let out a near-stifled sob. 

“Sometimes. Sometimes it feels like I can’t get close enough.” 

 

Stroking her hair and shoulders, Clarke did her best to keep the woman grounded. 

 

“Close to what? My body? Someone else?” 

 

She felt the shrug, the slow thrashing of her client’s head between her thighs. She tried to tap down her own arousal, her own growing need, to listen. 

 

“I don’t know.”

 

They stayed that way for several moments, silent. The word _nourishment_ kept appearing in her mind, as if it meant something, offering itself as some profound solution to her client’s dilemma. She had no idea, but knew this was her moment to take charge. 

“Sit up, please.” 

 

The woman did so automatically, but kept her head down. 

 

Clarke stood from the bed, hovering over the kneeling woman and peeled off her t-shirt, revealing the black leather front of her bra. 

 

“Take off my jeans.” 

 

Looking up, the client reached for the buttons on Clarke’s jeans and gently tugged the material down, revealing the bottom half of the lingerie. Clarke stepped out of the jeans before turning around and leaning down with her chest and arms on the bed.

“Go on.”

The brunette leaned forward, pressing her face firmly into the leather covering Clarke’s pussy, breathing in deeply and mouthing gently over it. The heat of her breath and the subtle movements and pressure against her cunt had Clarke wet almost instantly. She wanted to fall into it and let go. She wanted to grind back. But she held herself as still as possible, willing herself not to give in. 

 

“Harder.” 

 

The woman’s face pressed further, stretching the material taut against Clarke’s hardening clit. She wanted to grind so badly. She wanted the friction. Her need began to seep and drip along her thighs. 

“Stop.”

 

Slowly the woman pulled away, her breath ragged. 

 

Clarke turned again regarding the woman whose real name she didn’t know, whose eyes were almost wild with some inner anxiety, such a profound need to be…what, exactly? Fed or buried? 

These two opposing ideas disturbed her momentarily and she wondered what had brought this woman here, how did she come to live in a hotel without a single personal item on show, not even a picture. Did she have a life somewhere else? Did she lose it? How do you help someone who has become a ghost to the world?

 

“Lay down on the bed, on your stomach.” 

 

Rising, the woman did as she was told, settling herself face down on the bed, her head cradled in the fold of her arms. 

 

“Tell me your safe words.” 

 

“Yes and no.” 

 

Clarke smiled quietly to herself, pleased there would be no confusion on consent. 

Coming to a decision, she climbed onto the bed, straddling the woman from behind, grinding herself carefully against the revealed bare skin of her lower back, then leaned forward, placing her full weight against her client, and whispered against her ear.

“You feel so good.”

She heard the woman’s breath hitch as she ground her hips more firmly, her wetness spreading, pressing harder, almost painfully, her breasts smashed into cotton-covered shoulders. Winding her arms above and around the woman’s head, gripping her wrists, tight and unyielding, she began a slow undulation of her hips, rocking the two bodies together, as a gentle wave in the sea of the bed.

“Can you feel how wet I am? I’m so fucking close and you haven’t even touched me.” 

 

Her client made a small whimper, and gave a tiny, frustrated wriggle. Clarke only pressed down harder.

 

“Not yet. Just float with me a little. Feel me.”

 

A small voice emerged from the beneath her.

 

“Please.”

 

Bringing her lips to the woman’s ear, she began to rub her center up and down the small of her client’s back.

“Shh. Wait.” 

 

She knew it was frustrating the brunette not to be able to touch her or see what was happening. This was important. The wave of her hips grew more insistent.

 

“You want to taste me, don’t you?”

 

A gentle nod.

 

“You want me to rub my pussy all over your face.”

 

The nod pressed hard into the mattress.

 

“You want me to come in your mouth.” 

 

“ _Please_.”

 

In spite of her own need, Clarke stopped her assault and straightened, her wetness coating her thighs and her client’s lower back. Scooting down, Clarke lowered her lips to the stickiness drying on the woman’s back and began to lick. She felt the woman’s body shiver from the unexpected touch. 

 

“Not yet.” 

 

Sitting up to straddle the woman’s thighs, Clarke slowly removed her bra, placing it on the nightstand. 

Leaning forward again, she resumed her previous undulations, pressing hard into the body below.

 

“You’re going to fuck me first.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you like!


	3. 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Posting this one early as the last chapter was waaay too short. :-) 
> 
> Clarke is feeling overwhelmed by the intensity of her client's need, and her own growing attachment. Something has to change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Questions, comments, feedback, please! You can hmu on Tumblr @rivertalesien.

Sundays are meant to be days of rest and reflection, the calm before the storm of a new week. The sleep-in day. The lazy day. The day off.

 

Before this particular Sunday, Clarke would spend hers alone, painting, working on the large-scale pieces that gave her some anonymous fame, notoriety, even. Naked or sexual imagery on a massive canvas isn’t exactly the norm in most galleries, but Clarke had found one and from there, she’d found buyers. 

The paintings she’d conjured from her memories and dreams found their way into private collections, bought by wealthy patrons with artistic pretensions and not-so-artistic kinks. 

She’d started one recently, titled after the private nickname of a current client. It wasn’t like the others she’d done before.

This painting, a profile, showed the kneeling figure of a woman in supplication before an unseen figure. The woman’s eyes were a cloudy green, wide with fear and longing. 

She was never satisfied with it. Something about it she couldn’t get just right. 

She was afraid to admit that she didn’t want to finish it. Didn’t want it to wind up somewhere else. 

The night she had thought it was finished, she’d felt anxious and overwhelmed. She’d stood before the painting, staring up into those eyes that weren’t quite right, and thrust a hand into her crotch, rubbing furiously, reaching an unsatisfying climax. She’d removed her hand, sticky with her release and reached up, painting it over the parted lips of her subject, coating them glossy and shining. 

 

========================================================

 

Three fingers in wasn’t enough and she wanted to scream. 

Angrily thrusting her hips, chasing the need, Clarke clawed at the back of her client’s head, drawing her down for a searing kiss. She pulled back and stared into the dark eyes above her. 

“All of it. Do it. I want all of it. Now.”

 

Nodding, slowly, the other woman brought her fingers together and began to slowly push forward, wetness and tightness sliding around her wrists. 

It wasn’t easy, wasn’t something you could rush; she pushed until Clarke’s jaw was clenching, until she could feel herself surrounded, completely, and then stopped.

“Is this alright?” 

 

Clarke was nodding, gritting her teeth at the pleasure and pain of it, full but still incomplete. 

 

“ _Just fuck me_.” 

 

Lowering her head into the crook of Clarke’s neck, the brunette’s mouth ran hot and wet along her skin. 

And she began to thrust. 

Shallow, at first, enough to make Clarke squirm, then a little deeper, a little harder, forcing gasps and whimpers. Clarke’s body was alive with it, clinging, singing out its pleasure, never quite able to peak. 

Clarke reached up and gripped the woman’s head, forcing it away and down, over her a swollen breast, a hardened nipple and the woman sucked at it, sweet, tongue circling as her entire fist thrust in and almost out of Clarke’s aching, dripping cunt.

 

“ _Fuck_.”

 

Moving lower, the woman’s mouth found her clit and circled it in smooth, heavy strokes. One of Clarke’s legs wrapped over her shoulder, bearing down, as she thrust back at her lover, her hips rising off the bed as the pressure inside and out became too much and she cried, crashing, flooding the sheets and the beautiful face caught in the vice of her thighs.

The brunette’s mouth lingered over the hood of her still sensitive clit, her tongue lapping softly but firmly, helping her ride out the aftershocks of her orgasm. Slowly, she began to remove her hand, but Clarke’s caught her wrist.

“Don’t. Move.”

Relaxing against her, the woman’s head dropped a little, her cheek resting against damp curls as her hand throbbed a little, snug. 

“Is this close enough?” 

 

Clark felt the woman move a little, her cheek brushing back and forth against the dampness of her lips. 

Her voice was low and husky in response. She was almost laughing.

 

“If your pussy could swallow up my face instead of my fist, that might do it.”

 

Slowly, she withdrew her hand and Clarke’s head fell back against the pillow even as she wrapped both of her legs around the woman’s shoulders and pulled her forward.

 

“You do seem to belong there.” 

 

Warm breath spread around her labia as the brunette pressed herself into Clarke’s folds, turning her face this way and that, luxuriating in the taste, smell and feel of her. 

Long arms reached up around her waist to grasp at her breasts. The woman wasn’t going to yield her hold anytime soon. 

 

“Tighter, please.”

 

Reaching down, Clarke grasped the woman’s hair, pressing her, flexing her thighs strongly, and holding her in. She sighed as her clit pulsed again, demanding, but she did her best to ignore it. This part wasn’t about her.

The woman’s movements stilled and Clarke relaxed her grip a little, smoothing the wild locks with gentle touches. The woman’s face pressed softly into her thigh and a new wetness pressed there, too. 

Clarke closed her eyes as her own tears escaped down the flush of her cheeks. 

 

Her unfinished painting came into her mind and she knew, now, why she would never finish.

======================================================

 

 

“I’ll contact your office about next Saturday.”

 

Clarke had kept her back turned as she dressed, not even glancing in the mirror, lest she see the woman sitting on the bed. 

 

_She hasn’t even cleaned my come from her face. ___

__

__“I’m booked up for the next few weeks, I’m afraid. Not sure when I’ll have a Saturday opening.”_ _

__

__Something inside her quaked a little, felt wrong. She didn’t dare look back._ _

__

__“I see.”_ _

__

__Finishing, Clarke reached for her coat and scarf, heading toward the door._ _

__

__“Ask for Niylah. I’m sure you’d like her.”_ _

__

___Or you could find yourself a girlfriend and therapist and a life and get out of this mess._ _ _

__

__The woman didn’t move from the bed or turn in her direction as she reached the door._ _

__

__“It was great. You should try and get some sleep. Take care.”_ _

__

__She jumped a little at the weight of the door slamming behind her._ _

__

__Her thoughts were unfair and she was being unprofessional and _really, did this day need to be over_ so she could get back to the old routine. _ _

__

__Drinking on Sunday isn’t such a bad idea._ _

__

__

__

__Reaching in her pocket for her phone, she hit her most recent._ _

__

__“Rae? What you got for tonight?”_ _

__

__===========================================================_ _

__

__In the dim, failing winter light from her bedroom window, the woman stared out as snow fell on the city._ _

__

She’d not changed her clothes in two days. She’d not showered. She’d not changed her sheets. She wanted the scent to linger, to stay with her, keep her grounded and comforted. She could still taste it, feel it drying on her skin. If she closed her eyes, she could feel the weight and warmth of _her_ legs around her shoulders, squeezing, holding her close and safe. It was safe. She felt safe. 

__

Now, the moments gone, she felt herself beginning to untether, and sank down on the bed, clutching at the sheets, still drying with _her_ scent, and pressed them desperately to her face, pressing herself into the mattress, covering her ears, hard, to drown out the world that threatened to swallow her up. 

__

_How do I move on?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had to edit this chapter at least 15 times, starting over again since there seems to be an issue with coding (code being added that wasn't of my doing, or code I did add being removed) and I couldn't be bothered anymore. Please let me know if you've had any issues reading it. 
> 
> Anyone have any advice on how to deal with coding issue on this site?


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke goes home for the holidays and someone is playing pretty heavily on her mind.

“So. You were crushing on her, huh?”

 

Sunday evening at the only jazz bar in town: small crowd for a small quartet playing snazzy holiday classics like _I’ll Be Home for Christmas_ or _Let It Snow._

 

Seated in a small booth by the window, Clarke watched the snowfall and pedestrians rush past, trying not to stumble on the slippery sidewalks, pointedly ignoring her companion. 

 

“Well? Cat got your tongue, Griffin?”

 

Clarke looked up at her friend, sympathetic brown eyes hidden in a sour expression. 

 

“It wasn’t like that, Raven. It was just…different.”

 

She circled the rim of her glass and wished for a cigarette.

 

“How different is different? Good looking?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Good in bed?”

 

“Hell, yes.”

 

 

Raven’s smile was infectious, but it didn’t last. 

 

“One of the broken ones…and I crossed that line, you know? Where you’re not supposed to care? Just take the money, try to have a good time and tip toe out the door.” 

 

“You ran?”

 

Clarke’s head dropped. 

 

“Sprinted, maybe? I’ve never lost it before. Maybe I’m getting too old for this.”

 

Raven sipped from her cocktail, swiping an olive from a blue toothpick.

 

“26? Seriously? You’re in your prime, babe. Having your cake and making bank, too. You work with the best, your bosses are women, you’ve got a great sideline and you’re hot as fuck. If you get tired of so much success, please, tell me, what chance do us little but better-educated and better-looking people have?” 

 

Clarke lowered her drink and gave her friend a _please_ look. 

 

“What you’re saying is, I’m white and stupid and can get away with this shit in a way other women can’t.”

 

Raven nodded, smiling, reaching for the peanut bowl. 

 

“Yup. You’re a princess, Clarke. Use your powers for good or be gone from my realm.” 

 

“Quit whining, you mean?”

“Quit whining. So you had a weird one. So you liked her. So what? You’re not gonna see her again, you’re gonna move on, you got a million things happening, have another drink, you’ll feel better in the morning.” 

 

Clarke attempted a smile in response, turning her face back to the snow-covered pedestrians in the street. 

 

One after another, she saw them, those haunted eyes in every stranger. The rejection. Where was she now? 

 

“Stop it, Clarke.”

 

Clarke looked up to see Raven waving the waitress over. 

 

“God, I want to, I do. It’s just not that simple.” 

 

The waitress arrived and Raven ordered doubles.

 

“And that, my friend, is why we drink.” 

 

========================================================================================

 

Twinkling from shop windows, red, green and yellow lights, Christmas trees, electric train sets, painted Santas and winter scenes. From shop doorways, bell ringers gave merry greetings in trade for spare change. Shoppers in heavy winter coats and boots trudged with bags weighed down by love, obligations and credit card debt. 

 

Polis Square had been transformed into a giant ice rink for the season, with holiday music blaring from loudspeakers hidden in Christmas trees. Tired parents watched from the sidelines as their children slipped along the ice, laughing and singing along with Mariah Carey or Kelly Clarkson. A few wayward elves gave lessons to the smaller ones, mostly without success. 

 

She had always loved this time of year, grateful to grow up in a place where it snows and public transportation has, in the words of Raven Reyes, “its shit together.” Despite coming from a small family, Clarke appreciated how they had stayed together, how they celebrated together. Her parents’ old Craftsman bungalow came alive with lights and garlands and wreaths. Her younger brother, now entering his first year at college, still loved decorating the tree. There was something a little cookie-cutter about their lives, a little Hallmark Channel, but Clarke always counted her blessings. She needed their normalcy to balance the more extreme aspects of her life, the ones she kept well under wraps. 

 

She dreaded the inevitable. 

 

“So, kiddo. Seeing anyone?” 

 

A much younger version of Clarke wanted to groan out loud and throw herself on her bed, in the room that hasn’t been updated since she graduated.

 

“No, daddio, not my thing.”

 

The tall, lanky frame of Jake Griffin filled the doorway of Clarke’s old room. 

 

“Never was your thing. When was the last time you dated? Senior year? That Finn guy.” 

 

Clarke rolled her eyes as she hung newer clothes in her old closet.

 

“That Finn guy. Yeah. Pretty much.”

 

“I just feel like you’re missing out, kiddo. Not that I know anything.”

 

Clarke threw him an exasperated expression and blew him a little kiss. 

 

“And that’s why we love you, Popsicle.” 

 

From downstairs, she could hear the front door open and someone struggle with heavy items. Her mother.

 

_“I could use some help with the groceries, people. Thanks.”_

 

Jake shrugged and headed down the stairs. 

 

She wasn’t tired, but something made her drop to the bed, shoulders sagging, and look around. 

 

Her room hadn’t been touched in almost eight years. The nicely framed _Pan’s Labyrinth_ poster. The not so nicely framed Gwen Stefani/Sweet Escape poster. On the dark fiberboard desk, her iPod Shuffle and Nintendo DS. A school folder labeled _New Horizons_ with a print out of details on the Pluto mission. The forever dusty flat screen with a stack of DVDs, including two of _Brokeback Mountain_ propped next to it.

On the bookshelf by the window, her hardback collection of the Harry Potter series and His Secret Materials series. Some Terry Pratchett. Some Virginia Woolf. Some Stephen King. Polis High 2008 yearbook. All the illustrated children’s books she collected. Maurice Sendak, Charles Addams, Ludwig Bemelmans, Tove Jansson. _The Annotated Alice_.The books she didn’t want her parents to see: the one on Aubrey Beardsley. _Hood_ , by Emma Donoghue. _Written on the Body_ , by Jeannette Winterson. _Tipping the Velvet_ by Sarah Waters.

The last one was a surprise. She could remember hanging out with Octavia Blake senior year and loaning it to her. She must have returned it after graduation. 

 

_After I took off for the summer with Echo Malloy and forgot to tell anyone._

 

She laughed a little at herself, at the memory of a foolish escapade that nearly resulted in a statewide search and rescue. She’d been terrified of her name in the papers, but since she wasn’t yet 18, her parents were able to keep her out of it. But everyone knew. Bellamy Blake bitched her out for an entire year. Then he started dating Echo. 

Last she heard they had a mortgage and a baby daughter. 

 

She reached for the yearbook and started turning pages: all the unreadable signatures and a picture with Finn at Homecoming. The infamous strapless gown she knew still hung in her closet (no picture of _that_ wardrobe malfunction, fortunately). Prom with the old gang: Finn, Octavia, Harper, Monty and Jasper. She hasn’t seen them in years. Finn, she knew, joined the army and his mother’s church and thinks nothing of killing innocent civilians in a foreign country. Octavia went to the University of Oregon and studied veterinary medicine. Met a guy named Lincoln and sent out wedding invitations. Clarke had to decline for a previous commitment. Monty and Jasper are probably still gaming in Harper’s basement, smoking weed. 

 

_And I fuck people for a living._

 

She opened her phone and found the picture she had taken on the sly in the kitchen of a hotel suite.

 

_Or fuck them over. Same thing._

 

She wondered if The Commander had taken her recommendation. Niylah really would be a better choice. Mature and thoughtful, she’d probably help steer the troubled woman toward a therapist or counselor. She knew Niylah had got her text, but never replied. She felt tempted to send another, but knew that would send up a red flag. Niylah understood better than anyone how emotionally hazardous their work could be. She’d gotten engaged to a former client who then tried to pimp her out to some “friends.” She was lucky not to get jail time for what she did to the creep’s face. 

 

Reclining on the bed, she let her mind wander to where she promised she wouldn’t go: in the hotel bed, surrounded by down pillows and blankets and 600 thread count sheets and that sad, soft, beautiful face gazing up at her from between her legs. 

 

 

In the past, she’d regarded oral sex, unless it was a simultaneous mutual act, as lacking intimacy. One person’s face buried in a crotch was, to her mind, the very definition of performance. She couldn’t speak for those in love, but as a so-called expert in sex, the casual act didn’t inspire her at all. 

Her first time had been with Finn and when he tried it on her, she’d been so uncomfortable that she nearly cried. His education had come entirely from porn and while it might look good on screen, the reality was almost laughable. Of course, she’d been educated in the same fashion, too, but whereas she never asked him for head, he begged for it _constantly_. 

Porn had a lot to answer for. 

 

“Clarke?” 

 

Her eyes opened to her mother, Abby, walking in (she never learned to knock) and seating herself on the end of the bed.

 

She didn’t sit up, but threw an arm over her face to try and cover the tears she only now realized were there. 

 

“What’s wrong?” 

 

Clarke shook her head, rubbing at her eyes, pulling a yawn, and pretending to be sleepy.

 

“Just tired. Do you need any help?”

 

“Nope. We’re good. Aden’s on his way home and I’m making that pork roast. Might do some shopping later. Would you like to go?”

 

Clarke sat up and nodded, smiling, and knowing full well her mother saw through her and was kind enough not to say anything. Instead, the older woman held out her arms and Clarke sank within them, melting into the warmth of her mother’s unfailing love; it gave her the strength to push those haunted green eyes into the back of her mind. Feeling her own heartbeat against her mother’s chest, she knew the brunette already lived somewhere else inside. 

_This is going to be the longest winter._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So much thanks again for the sweetest comments on this story. It's getting to be a slow burner, but not too slow I hope! 
> 
> Next chapter we'll get back to Lexa and hopefully turn up some heat. It's getting cold outside...
> 
> I love the feedback, please keep it coming!! Got any questions or want to chat? You can visit me on Tumblr @rivertalesien.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lexa has returned to her childhood home and uncertain memories and Clarke learns Lexa's identity while Christmas shopping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, but the dog ate it and I had to rewrite the whole thing.
> 
> Thanks again to any and all readers and commenters, you have been so encouraging! 
> 
> Please do send along feedback and let me know if you'd like more of this story!

She made herself get up and clear the sheets from the bed. She’d spent four days in total, barely moving, not bothering to dress or clean or eat. She felt weak and her whole body cried out for sustenance. From one side of the large bed, on the pillow opposite, her fingers tenderly trace a single, blonde hair. 

 

_This has to stop._

 

A call to room service clears up one problem, giving her some motivation to continue to clear up the rest. 

Blinds open, a wintry sunlight filling the room. Looking out and down, she can see the holiday décor, tree lights and painted Santas. Down there, people were getting on with it, pushing through the glittering detritus of their days and making it work. There is nothing in particular that she misses, except all of it, in a broad, vaguely nostalgic way, like remembering the feeling of pleasure of an old childhood memory. There are no details, really, just a sense of yearning, of a longing to return. 

 

_Go home._

 

One shower and a fresh set of clothes later, she’s doing it: the packing up and the check out call. She’s been there for months and hardly spoken to anyone. There are some general words of regret over not being able to stay longer (as if anyone noticed her or cared), we hoped you enjoyed, come back, take care, happy holidays. 

She’s decided. The next call makes it final.

Gustus.

 

==================================================

 

The old black Mercedes rolls up to the entrance, shining, spotless. A tall, older man with a long dark beard slowly emerges from the driver’s side. His forehead is furrowed with concern, his eyes red-rimmed with sleeplessness and hard-won stoicism. He makes no move toward the pale, thin woman on the bench outside the hotel. She looks up and the weight of something lost keeps her face low, set into a sad frown. A single case sits beside her. Her fingers fiddle with something almost invisible wrapped around them. 

 

“You ready, then?”

 

She gives a slight nod and raises herself, pulling her case with her. 

 

The trunk of the Mercedes pops open and she places the case inside, closing the lid. Approaching the passenger side door, she offers a delicate smile.

 

“Thank you, Gus.” 

 

He nods, pushing some emotion back and resumes his seat. As she enters the car and reaches for the seat belt, he adjusts the heater, making sure the vents are pointed in her direction.

“Thanks.” 

 

His smile is sad when he touches her hand, squeezing it for a moment before turning to the wheel and starting the engine. 

 

“I won’t break again, Gus. I promise.” 

 

Her look is firm and clear, but the older man can see her fingers working, winding a golden thread between them, tethering herself to something he knows he will be helpless to save her from. 

 

_Please let it be something good._

 

Nodding more to himself than her, he checks his mirrors and slowly pulls out into the traffic. 

 

=======================================================

 

The house on the lake looks serene in the snowfall. It looks like something out of a Currier and Ives painting: a man in a plaid jacket should be dragging a tree on a sleigh, followed by laughing kids and a dog. Two or three cords of wood are stacked near the rear patio and smoke drifts from the fading red brick of the chimney. Fat robins hold court on the old fence posts. There are no decorations, but, to her, it looks like Christmas.

She exits the car, case in hand, before Gus parks it in the adjoining garage. In the driveway is a snow-covered Jeep Ranger. She idly brushes at the cold before walking slowly to the front porch. Running her hands along its old wood railings, she looks up past the snow-filled eaves to the gable windows, to the one with the newer-looking sash. 

 

“You fixed that?”

 

Gustus walks up behind her, his bulky frame shivering a little in the cold. He nods. 

 

“I appreciate it.”

 

Inside, the house is warm. White dust-cloth sheets cover the furniture. The walls of the living room are bare and the only decorations are two photographs on the fireplace mantle: one of a family, an older-looking man and woman kneeling beside a young girl in a school uniform and the second, a young woman with brown eyes smiling at the camera.

 

“I’ve bought some groceries and stocked up a little. I made your bed, too.”

 

She turns to look at him with watery eyes, a question refusing to be spoken out loud.

 

“No one’s been here since the funeral.” 

 

She nods, offering a grateful smile, and sets down her case near a covered couch. 

 

“Would you like some tea or coffee, Gus?” 

 

The older man shakes his head.

 

“No, no thanks. If you’re good, I’ll just be heading home.”

 

She turns to look at him fully, her arms like lead weights at her side. 

 

“I’m grateful, Gus. Really. Thank you. For everything.” 

 

She barely has a moment to realize his arms are around her and she is being held, tenderly but firmly, his large hands, pressed to her spine and the back of her head. 

She remains still, like a punished child unsure how to accept forgiveness. 

 

“You take care. Call anytime. I mean it.” 

 

She watches as he leaves the house, rushes to a window to watch him brush snow off the Jeep before entering the car and warming the engine. He stays in the driver’s seat, looking back at the house, nodding his head at her. She raises her hand to wave, but it won’t move. 

She feels cold suddenly, afraid, struggles against the need to run outside and make him stay, make him take her anywhere else but here. 

 

He is already gone when she slides to the couch, sinking deeply into it, ignoring the rise of dust around her. 

 

From her pocket she pulls out her phone and opens the gallery to gaze at the picture she took, surreptitiously, in the hotel room. 

 

Messy blonde curls splayed on a pillow. Swells and curves of naked flesh twisted in the sheets. Long, dark lashes resting above pinkish cheeks. The dimpled jaw. 

For a moment she remembers, the smooth weight on her shoulders, the pressure and pulling in, the sweet-salt taste, the enthralling scent of her, how warm and safe she felt. Surrounded, surrendered. 

 

She closes her eyes and holds up one hand, wetting the golden hair between her lips.

 

===================================================== 

 

The Barnes and Noble was not unreasonably crowded at the late hour and Clarke found herself enjoying a wander through the shelves, pleased to let her mind go blank and forget the last few weeks for a while. 

Holiday tunes tinkled down from above, as Clarke looked over the Harry Potter merchandise. She pouted at all the Gryffindor and Slytherin goodies: nothing for poor Hufflepuffs or Ravenclaws. Deciding Hermione would not approve, she moved on, passing up 3d puzzles of the Empire State Building and expensive-looking lightsaber replicas. Did anyone need a $200 _Game of Thrones_ throw? She couldn’t picture it on her mother’s sofa. For a mere $12.99, she could invest in a light-up fidget cube. 

She felt tempted.

Skipping the fiction section entirely to skim the art and design books, she paused on a thick, glossy volume of Victorian “erotica”. She wasn’t at all surprised at the amount of heterosexual imagery, but had to pore over the lesbian-related art, especially one colorful image of a woman kneeling before another. There was no passion in the image; the woman with her legs splayed wasn’t even looking at her lover, whose face could not be seen. Instead, her attention was focused on her reflection in a tall, oval mirror. 

She felt taken with the puzzle of the painter’s thinking: was the painter making a commentary about narcissism and female sexuality or something deeper, a dissection of pleasure from the point of view from the receiver? The image took on a darker quality when she noticed the tiny reflection of the Peeping Tom in the tree outside the woman’s window. Now the story of the painting was a man (the painter, most likely), seeking the (sexual) secrets of womanhood through a time-honored tradition of voyeurism and mockery. The woman’s lack of expression has nothing to do with a lack of passion, she decides: the poor thing is frozen in horror at being caught (while the voyeur is snickering). 

Putting the book aside, she returns to her meanderings, trying to remember any time she had been caught. There’d been one time, with Finn, no less; they’d forgotten to lock the door, classic. She’d always refused client’s offers to film her services and turned down the company’s offer to fund a series of “sexual aides” with her “demonstrating” various techniques as well as discussing health and safety. 

As much as she enjoyed looking at others, painting others, she couldn’t bear to be the subject herself. When she allowed a client to see her, to touch her, she required _fealty._ A person’s body is sacred, holy ground and if you wish to visit and enjoy the sights, it’s important not to act like a crass, casual tourist. She might not enjoy all they have in mind, but she never allowed anyone to disrespect her or her boundaries. She never saw her work as anything but a kind of art. Like any art, it is subject to interpretation but must never be at the mercy of the belligerent or ignorant. 

_There is no snickering in my bed._

 

The distraction of her thoughts found her inside the audio/visual section, glancing empty-eyed at Blu Ray editions of holiday classics or vinyl reissues of classic albums like _Pet Sounds_ or _A Hard Day’s Night._ A loose pair of headphones blared a sample track from another album. The surprisingly low and warm tones of Evan Rachel Wood sang _if I fell in love with you, would you promise to be true and help me understand? Cuz I been in love before, and I found that love was more than just holding hands…_

A wave of unwanted longing and a flutter in her chest pushed her toward the classical racks, where her heart nearly stopped completely. 

She reached for the cracked CD cover, her hands shaking a little, and turned it over and over, taking in as much information as she could. 

Striding to the checkout, she set the CD on the counter and handed the cashier her debit card. A low hum ran up and down her spine as she rocked back and forth on the balls of her feet and she didn’t wait for the receipt to grab the disc and hurry out the front entrance. 

_=====================================================_

The door to her old bedroom creaked a little as she entered, reaching in the dark for the light switch. 

Nothing had been disturbed, from the gold albums and framed newspaper clippings on the walls to the thin layer of dust on the old Chickering. 

She sat on the small wooden stool and ran her fingers tenderly along the surface of the keys, pressing gently but randomly, until a tune began to emerge. 

Growing more confident, she turned her body fully into the piano and to the music, engaging all her senses to the task. She’d known the piece since she was a child, her mother had insisted on Bach before anything else and she could picture her mother, just to her right, correcting her tempo and phrasing, insisting on absolute clarity. 

Her body could recall the sense of vulnerability, being exposed to an audience for the first time, to their expectations of greatness, how it unmade her, left her naked, terrified of the failure she knew was inevitable. 

It was too much for her suddenly and she stopped, letting her posture sag against herself. She had to close her eyes, tightly, against the unwanted need to press against another, to be wound in warm, silky arms and legs, held with a fierceness and gentleness that kept all her desperate anxieties at bay. 

_==================================================_

From the heated interior of her mother’s car, Clarke ripped off the plastic covering and slipped the disc inside the CD player. 

Moments later, silvery notes in a layered, sensual succession rose, and she closed her eyes, losing herself in the delicate cadence of it, reminded of the softness of her voice, the way she said her name, the way her lips moved across her skin as if she were something holy. 

She reclined back in the seat, lower muscles clenching, surprised at the sudden arousal. Her body felt empty and needful, aching to twine itself around slim shoulders and hips, holding so close until they either merged or died. 

Her mother’s return broke the spell but only just. 

“Clarke? You disappeared on me. I found a couple of things for dad and Aden…what are we listening to?” 

Reaching for the CD case, Abby squinted at the name on the cover. 

“Since when do you like classical music?” 

Clarke couldn’t help the smile that lifted the corners of her mouth. She wanted to say to her mother something like _since I found out the client who has been blowing my mind and body for the past few weeks was a famous pianist, I guess._

__

__

“It’s a new thing.” 

“Lexa Woods, huh? I remember reading about her; she’d quit performing when she was very young. Really disappointed some people I guess.” 

Clarke raised an eyebrow at her mother’s knowledge, and took in this piece of information like a starving child. Still looking over the case, her mother read: 

“The musicians used to call her The Commander. Even as a young child prodigy, she had a no-nonsense attitude on stage.” 

She tried to reconcile the image of the gently submissive and slightly rumpled woman who knew how to coax orgasms from her like some kind of pussy whisperer, with that of a overtly serious, probably pretentious, young musician in an uncomfortable-looking suit. 

“She knew how to play, I guess.” 

Clarke couldn’t hold back the tiny, nervous laugh, not even with her mother staring at her in total bewilderment. 

_If you only knew._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song If I Fell was written by Lennon/McCartney and I highly recommend you check out Evan Rachel Wood's version on the Across the Universe soundtrack.


	6. NOT A CHAPTER

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! I'm so sorry for the lack of update, it's been a crazy month! 
> 
> Rest assured, I've not abandoned this, it will be back, but won't promise as to a date as that hasn't worked before (but I'm really pushing myself for New Years). 
> 
> Thank you to all who have been reading and all the supportive comments, I hope you are a having a WONDERFUL season with whatever you celebrate, with friends and loved ones. 
> 
> Peace, hope, love and joy to all of you!!

Here's a teeny preview of Chapter 6 I previously put on Tumblr:

 

The bed was made, but turned down, a comfortable looking King and she suddenly felt tired of wanting to impress. She was also a little tired of not getting off and this client looked no better than the rest at this point. Setting her glass down on the nightstand, she unbuttoned and slid her jeans off, tossing them gently into a chair. 

On the nightstand, she picked up a remote and moved the slider, dimming the lights in the room. Climbing onto the bed, she arranged herself on her side, in an inviting s-shape and took another drink of her wine.

She was about to call out when the bathroom door opened and her client emerged, still dressed and froze at the sight in front of her. 

 

“I got comfy. Hope you don’t mind.”

 

Even in the dim light, she could make out the hard swallow and the look of worry, but the woman approached, tentatively, jaw slack, her eyes roaming the length of the generously proportioned body before her. She stopped just short of sitting and looked down at Clarke.

 

“I’ve never done this. I’m sorry.” 

Clarke tilted her head, offering a gentle smile. There was something so vulnerable in the woman’s face, the fullness of her lips, the open ache of her eyes.

 

“You’re cute. Have a seat.”

Clarke pulled her legs up a little, giving her client some room. She placed her glass back on the nightstand and sat up. The movement pushed her chest forward, the thin garment barely holding her in, and she smiled a little wider at the other woman’s shyness. 

 

“Did you have anything in mind? Anything you’d like to do?” 

 

Clarke stretched a leg across her client’s lap, raising her foot to graze the woman’s chin and lift her face toward her.

The woman reached up, a little hesitant, caressing Clarke’s leg, running her fingers up and down the smooth skin, fascinated. Her hands were soft and her fingers long and delicate, tracing around Clarke’s knee, going no further.

“You have nice hands. What else are they good at?” 

Clarke was looking at her with hooded eyes now, letting her own thirst rise. She twisted slightly and bent her knees, her legs naturally parting.

If subtle doesn’t work, just go for the main event.

 

The woman’s eyes were drawn to her silk-covered center, and Clarke was taken with how the woman stared. Her voice was so quiet she almost didn’t hear.

“I’d like to taste you.”

Not subtle at all. Clarke couldn’t help the little laugh that came out.

 

“Wow. Buy a girl dinner first, why don’t you?”

The woman’s blush was visible even in the almost dark of the room, and Clarke stretched, drawing herself up and face-to-face with her new client. There was no resistance as she crawled into the woman’s lap, lazily lacing her arms around her neck and leaning in, just barely running her nose along flushed cheeks.

 

“I’ve got a little confession.”

She kept her breathing calm as the woman’s eyes dipped into her cleavage and long fingers played with the hem of her shirt. She leaned closer to the woman’s left ear and whispered.

 

“I’ve been thinking about your mouth since you opened the door.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter starts with a (slightly smutty) memory of Clarke and Lexa's first meeting, then focuses mostly on Clarke, home for Christmas, catching up with her brother, Aden, and somewhat obsessing over her recent ex-client, now revealed as a once-famous pianist, turned recluse. Coincidence is on the menu (or is it serendipity?), and Clarke might be closer to what she is looking for than she realizes.
> 
> Lots of food going on here, hope you're hungry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After some delay, an update! Thank you to those who have sent me some really sweet messages of support, I hope you're still enjoying this story. 
> 
> As always, your feedback is so important, please let me know if you like and I'm going to do my best to get the next update out sooner! 
> 
> Happy Valentine's Day!

Two souls are sometimes created together and in love before they’re born.

\- - F. Scott Fitzgerald

 

Six weeks ago 

 

“What have you got for me, Rose?”

 

Entering the executive suite of the Company’s offices, Clarke plopped down on a plush green velvet sofa, and rested her ripped jean-clad legs on a matching cushion opposite. 

She idly took in the room, the modern electric fireplace, the large black, glass desk, and the wall of floor-to-ceiling windows with a foggy view of downtown Polis. Over the mantle she was pleased to still see her _Echo_ hanging over it, in all her tattooed, naked glory. 

 

Behind the desk, a compact, immaculately dressed woman with sharp features and a long ponytail dragged a finger along her iPad, reading from it.

 

“New one. Female. From background check, independently wealthy, no warrants or arrests, no domestics, no drugs.”

 

Clarke pulled a small tube from her jeans pocket and ran it across her lips. 

 

“Wow. I’m in love.” 

 

Rose rolled her eyes and continued.

 

“No names. No games. Tris thought she might be a little on the sub-side. Dinner is a possibility. She’s keeping her clothes on. Knows the rules. She wants to _play it by ear._ Tris is calling her The Commander, so take that how you will.”

 

Clarke nodded, putting away her gloss. 

 

“She’s gonna talk me to death.”

 

Rose smiled and tapped against the tablet.

 

“I’m sending you the address and time, deposit confirmation attached. She’ll know you as Claire from the office, dress casual, you’re done at midnight. Harper’s your shadow. Have fun.” 

==================================================

 

Adjusting her wristband watch for the umpteenth time, Lexa Woods gazed down from her hotel suite onto a rainy, and mostly empty, Polis Square. 

The escort would arrive shortly, and she worried the leather strap as she contemplated taking her out for dinner and drinks first. 

She was leaning against it, if for no other reason it seemed too much like a date and she had no interest in such activity. The woman would be professional and not really care one way or another, so best not to create too much inconvenience. 

 

_I need this out of my system._

 

She turned back toward the kitchen, to her phone lying on the counter and held herself from picking it up. She contemplated the mini bar, but thought better of that, too. She could feel the tiny tear in the strap, felt tempted to rip it completely, destroying it.

Unwanted, the memory of Costia giving her the watch as a birthday present surfaced. She felt a brief stab of panic as an existential wave crested and threatened to overwhelm her. Clenching her fists, she reached for the television remote and forced the chill of that black wave back down, laying her focus on Ina Garten prepping a turkey for the oven. 

 

_If you can’t find meaning in life, store bought is fine._

 

A knock on the door left her in a cold sweat. 

 

====================================================

 

After the third knock, Clarke wondered if she’d been given the wrong suite number or the wrong hotel or if her client had bailed already. Newbies were predictable like that. So many felt some kind of guilt or embarrassment, worried they might be caught or punished for experiencing a desire. It never bothered her in the slightest as the deposit had already been paid. A shame for them, but money for nothing was the best sort of work. 

 

She was ready to walk after the fifth knock, give Rose a call and head home when the door opened and everything changed. 

 

==========================================================

 

The woman calling herself Claire could not have been further from what Lexa had briefly imagined. Though she’d not requested any specifics, she’d thought a tall, glamorous, model sort, with legs for days would show up in a trench coat with black lingerie on underneath. She knew she lacked experience in this sort of thing, but really, films had a lot to answer for. 

 

Not that the woman casually walking around the suite didn’t exude a certain movie star quality; in fact, she gave out fierce blonde bombshell badass vibes that would not be messed with. That she carried this off wearing a bulky gray cardigan over stretch jeans made her no less impressive. 

 

Arranging herself neatly in one of the suite’s leather armchairs, the woman regarded her thoughtfully, with the barest hints of a smile around the corners of her mouth. She gestured to the chair opposite. 

 

“Maybe we should talk a little first? Get comfortable. Is that okay?”

 

Her voice was surprisingly low, commanding without even trying. _In charge and she knows it._

 

Lexa nodded, tugging at the wristband, then seated herself next to “Claire.” 

 

“It helps us both if you know what you want, but if this is new to you, we can take it slow and find what works. There’s no rush.” 

 

Unbuttoning the cardigan, the woman leaned forward and pulled it off, revealing a thin camisole top with spaghetti straps and a plunging neckline that confirmed she wore no bra. Lexa knew better than to be surprised, but she didn’t expect the cardigan to land on her lap, either. 

The woman was looking at her with either real or brilliantly manufactured lust, her eyes like a cat’s, narrowing on her prey. 

 

“Sorry, it’s a little warm in here. Why don’t you hang that up for me?” 

 

Lexa rose, knowing the woman’s eyes were all over her, knowing she was being tested a little. She moved deliberately to the bedroom, heart racing, and placed the cardigan on a chair. 

 

“I’m just going to use the restroom, help yourself to anything.” 

 

She didn’t wait for an answer before ducking in the bathroom and locking the door behind her. 

 

======================================================

 

Clarke wanted to laugh at how awkward the whole scene was, betting with herself how long it would take her client to shut it all down, call it a big mistake and send her home. She hated that she might be right. The woman was _fine_ from the outside and clearly in need of some training. 

Subs were a dime a dozen in her field and she wasn’t really looking for one, not feeling the need to put on yet another persona that didn’t quite agree with her just to get someone off. 

_Play it by ear, right. And stop making assumptions._

 

She rose and looked through the kitchen, noting the cleanliness, not even an old food container. A bottle of wine, unopened, caught her attention and, after finding an opener and a wine glass she poured a generous amount and wandered toward the bedroom. 

 

The bed was made, but turned down, a comfortable looking King and she suddenly felt tired of wanting to impress. She was also a little tired of not getting off and this client looked no better than the rest at this point. Setting her glass down on the nightstand, she unbuttoned and slid her jeans off, tossing them gently into a chair. 

 

On the nightstand, she picked up a remote and moved the slider, dimming the lights in the room. Climbing onto the bed, she arranged herself on her side, in an inviting s-shape and took another drink of her wine. 

She was about to call out when the bathroom door opened and her client emerged, still dressed and froze at the sight in front of her. 

 

“I got comfy. Hope you don’t mind.”

 

Even in the dim light, she could make out the hard swallow and the look of worry, but the woman approached, tentatively, jaw slack, her eyes roaming the length of the generously proportioned body before her. She stopped just short of sitting and looked down at Clarke.

 

“I’ve never done this. I’m sorry.” 

 

Clarke tilted her head, offering a gentle smile. There was something so vulnerable in the woman’s face, the fullness of her lips, the open ache of her eyes.

 

“You’re cute. Come here.”

 

Clarke pulled her legs up a little, giving her client some room. She placed her glass back on the nightstand and sat up. The movement pushed her chest forward, the thin garment barely holding her in, and she smiled a little wider at the other woman’s shyness. 

 

“Did you have anything in mind? Anything you’d like to do?” 

 

Clarke stretched a leg across her client’s lap, raising her foot to graze the woman’s chin and lift her face toward her.

The woman reached up, a little hesitant, caressing Clarke’s leg, running her fingers up and down the smooth skin, fascinated. Her hands were soft and her fingers long and delicate, tracing around Clarke’s knee, going no further. 

 

“You have nice hands. What else are they good at?” 

 

Clarke was looking at her with hooded eyes now, letting her own thirst rise. She twisted slightly and bent her knees, her legs naturally parting. 

 

_If subtle doesn’t work, just go for the main event._

 

The woman’s eyes were drawn to her silk-covered center, and Clarke was taken with how the woman _stared._ Her voice was so quiet she almost didn’t hear.

 

“Can I -” 

 

Not subtle at all. Clarke couldn’t help the little laugh that came out.

 

“Wow. Buy a girl dinner first, why don’t you?”

 

The woman’s blush was visible even in the almost dark of the room, and Clarke stretched, drawing herself up and face-to-face with her new client. There was no resistance as she crawled into the woman’s lap, lazily lacing her arms around her neck and leaning in, just barely running her nose along flushed cheeks. 

 

“I’ve got a little confession.” 

 

She kept her breathing calm as the woman’s eyes dipped into her cleavage and long fingers played with the hem of her shirt. She leaned closer to the woman’s left ear and whispered.

 

“I’ve been thinking about your mouth since you opened the door.”

 

Grasping her client’s hands, she held them up to her chest, cupping the palms against both of her breasts, encouraging a squeeze.

 

“Do you like that? Do you want to suck my tits?” 

 

Reaching up, Clarke tugged at the straps of the cami and let the blouse fall, the fullness of her breasts revealed as she leaned back, allowing her client to fondle them, gently, wonderingly. 

 

Running a hand through the woman’s long, chestnut locks, she encouraged her forward.

 

“Come on. Show me how you use that mouth.”

 

Clarke wasn’t expecting the soft kisses the client slowly placed along her skin. Over and over the woman’s lips pursed gently into one breast, then the other, their weight supported in soft, supple palms that slowly caressed with tender grazing. 

She drew in a deep breath when lips finally found a nipple and a soft, wet tongue circled it slowly and warmly, only the barest drawing in discernible. 

 

Usually, Clarke would urge a client onwards, _get to the fucking point_ with little in the way of foreplay. Most had no problem with that, but it did mean she spent more time doing the same thing over and over, in positions that might look awesome in a porno, but in real life could cause some actual damage if not done correctly. 

And there were times when a client simply did not understand this reality. 

 

Communication is essential.

 

She felt a warm surge of wetness through her panties and shifted a little on the woman’s lap, seeking connection, and not finding it. The woman’s hands were tracing warm, delicate circles on her lower back and her eyes were boring into her own with a kind of fear. Even in the dim, she could make out the clear, cool tint of green, like the surface of a summer lake. Her lips were trailing between her breasts, her cheeks rubbing softly against the tender fullness surrounding her face. She’s asking permission.

 

With a small nod, Clarke felt herself lifted slightly and laid backward against the pillows. With fingers trembling slightly, the client reached for the waist of her thong and pulled it down across her hips and legs, resting it neatly on the floor. 

 

Bending her knees slightly and spreading her legs, Clarke let out a genuine sigh of relief as the woman lowered her face into her cunt, sniffing and nuzzling the blonde curls, turning her head this way and that, as if trying to take it all in, as if it were too much. 

 

When the woman’s tongue swept slowly through her folds and circled her clit, Clarke let her arms relax from her sides and grinned as a long-overdue orgasm began to build deep inside, and her hips, probably of their own volition, began to thrust slowly upwards into that beautiful, _beautiful_ mouth. 

 

========================================

“Tell me what happened. Are you ok?” 

She’d expected a little anger or irritation, but Rose understood; better than most, sometimes. 

“I was unprofessional.” 

“In what way?”

“I didn’t communicate. I just left.” 

“What happened?” 

Clarke paced the office, pausing at the window, looking out at the rain. 

“I just got too far into my head on this one.” 

Rose nodded at her, playing with the handle of her coffee cup at her desk. 

“Fantasies can be powerful. Is that what happened?” 

Clarke looked hard into the outside, struggling with what was within. 

“We shared a fantasy that we didn’t discuss and that was a mistake. I made a mistake and I feel terrible.” 

===============================================

The new client had been gone over an hour and she hadn’t stirred from the bed. 

She hadn’t come in weeks since _her_ , not even daring to say the name to herself, as if it were a betrayal of some sort, secret information she should never have known. 

 

Leaning against the pillows, she lets one hand drift absently to her labia, still slick with lubricant, and she lingers there, two fingers caressing, pressing. She wants to come, wants to edge until it hurts. She hears the shower run and decides why not. She lets her legs fall open and presses both hands against her mound, imagining for a moment, a face, a beautiful mouth sealed tight against her. She rubs, hard, hips moving in small thrusts, feeling the anger underneath it, the wild want of _fucking_ of taking. A deeper ache pulls at her, wanting to squeeze her thighs around that pleading face, her fingers clutching through brown waves. 

It is the memory of those large, sad eyes, the color of forest streams that does it, sends her crashing and it takes all she has not to scream out _her name_. 

It leaves her body in a single breath. 

 

=====================================

In her Lyft, on her way home, she sends a text to Rose. 

It isn’t particularly kosher, but she wants to know. 

 

_Do you know why Tris called my last client The Commander? Did anyone know who she was?_

 

Waiting for the reply, she raises a finger to the cold glass of the passenger window, marking a delicate L into the fog.

 

==========================

 

“What’s cooking?”

 

Dropping her purse on the dining table, Clarke enters her mom’s kitchen, and reaches toward a small glass bowl of olives resting on the breakfast bar. 

A tall, gangly young man with blonde hair, cut into a messy crop, turns from the stove to smile at her. 

“I’m making lefsa for mom.”

Turning back to his work, he gently flips the thin crepe before sliding it onto a plate already filled with the slim, steaming treats. 

 

Popping a fat green olive in her mouth, Clarke regards his dark chef’s jacket with his named spelled out in silver letters over the breast pocket: ADEN.

 

“Where are you working now?” 

 

Turning off the stove and placing the sauté pan in the sink, Aden sidles up to the bar and sits down, plucking a black olive for himself.

 

“Do you know The Tower? It’s been around for ages, kind of went out a few years ago, but it’s coming back. I got a cool boss. Scary, but cool.” 

“Have you moved up?” 

“Not really, still doing grill. It’s good though, I like it.” 

“Off to work soon? Need a ride?” 

 

Popping another olive in his mouth, Aden shook his head. 

 

“Sure, if that’s okay. Where have you been all night anyway? Booty call?” 

 

Pushing off the bar toward the coffeemaker, Clarke avoided his look. 

 

“Nope, just hanging with an old friend. No big.” 

 

Opening a coffee canister, she ladled three generous scoops into the filter basket and hit the on button. The smell of brewing French roast immediately filled the kitchen. 

 

“I’ve got time for this, right?” 

 

Taking the plate of lefsa to the fridge, Aden nods. 

 

“Yeah, we got a few. I gotta get my stuff and we’ll head out. Hey, what are you getting them for Christmas?” 

 

Clarke shrugs. 

 

“They have everything and they never want anything. I figured maybe a big velvet painting of Elvis, Vegas pantsuit era.” 

 

Walking toward the living room, her brother smiles, nodding approvingly.

 

“I was thinking like matching pajama onesies.” 

 

“Only if they’re pink bunny rabbits with cute fluffy tails.” 

 

“And floppy ears.”

 

“Totally. Can’t be a proper bunny without floppy ears.” 

 

“Why are you two discussing Easter before Christmas? At 7 in the morning?”

 

Turning from the coffee station, Clarke regarded her father’s rumpled appearance and wild bed-head. 

 

“Actually, we were discussing dinner. You like rabbit, right?” 

 

Making a face that did not disappoint, Jake entered the kitchen and hovered over his only daughter. 

 

“Remind me why we decided to keep you.” 

 

Giving him a grin, Clarke left a wet kiss on his cheek and poured him a steaming mug from the carafe. 

 

“I’m cute.” 

 

Reaching for a mug, Aden shook his head.

“Legal obligations.”

 

Slapping her brother’s shoulder, Clarke poured her own mug, and held it tightly in her hands, against her chest, warm.

 

“After I drop you off, I’ll be out doing some shopping, I think. Anyone need me to get anything?” 

 

Smoothing over his hair, Jake shrugged. 

 

“Maybe you could find some fancy diamond something or other for your mom? Say it’s from me?”

 

“You paying for it?”

 

Acting offended, the older man held an open palm against his chest.

 

“Paying for it? I? The man who raised you by the sweat of his brow? The man who has given you everything?”

 

Clarke raised an eyebrow.

 

“Never got a Barbie Dream House.”

 

“You never asked for a Barbie Dream House.”

 

“A girl shouldn’t _have_ to ask, daddy. Daddies should _know_.”

 

Snapping his fingers, Aden pointed toward the front door.

 

“This is thrilling, but I’m gonna be late.” 

 

Finishing her mug, Clarke nodded.

 

“Sorry, let’s get. See you later, pops.” 

 

Waving at his offspring as they grabbed their bags and left, Jake yawned and scratched. 

 

“No one ever got _me_ a Barbie Dream House.”

 

“What are you talking about?”

 

Abby emerged from the staircase, dressed and brushed, immaculate. 

 

“Did you know our daughter wanted a Barbie Dream House?” 

 

Entering the kitchen, heading straight for the coffee, Abby shook her head.

 

“No, that was Aden.” 

 

“Huh?”

 

“Clarke hated Barbie. She just wanted paints and brushes and books.” 

 

Reaching for his wife, Jake took the full coffee mug from her hands and pulled her against his chest, a clear wink in his eye.

 

“They kids are gone, you know. Probably be gone all day.” 

 

Abby smiled, lifting her face to his.

 

“Sweetheart, love of my life: _the kids don’t live here anymore._ We get to do stuff all the time.” 

“I keep forgetting.” 

 

Leaning in for a kiss, Jake finds it abruptly cut off.

 

“Unfortunately, you’ve also forgotten I have a meeting this morning.” 

 

Shaking her head at his pouting expression, Abby heads toward the front door, steaming mug in hand. 

 

“Don’t do that. Who knows, maybe I’ll get back before the kids and we can do some wrapping together.”

 

Smiling at her flirty wink, Jake sighed and turned back to the kitchen, frowning as he noticed the mess Aden left behind.

 

“That boy. No Barbie Dream House for you, kid.” 

 

===================================

“Come in, you haven’t had breakfast.” 

 

Parking her car on the sidewalk outside the unimposing exterior of The Tower, Clarke took in the building’s worn-out brickwork and hand-painted window signage, declaring it established in 1952. 

The building held an old-world charm, especially in the snowfall, with twinkling Christmas lights around the panes and a Christmas tree visible from within. 

Before she could agree, a large man with a long beard appeared from around back, a heavy brown parka over his dark chef’s uniform. He carried a bright red snow shovel and began scraping it along the sidewalk. 

 

“Hey, there’s Gus. C’mon, it’s okay.” 

 

Acknowledging her hunger, Clarke joined her brother on the snowy sidewalk. 

 

========================

 

It had been ages since she’d made Costia’s favorite, wasn’t sure if she could pull it off the same.

Simple, really, she knew it, as she buttered the ramekin, gently lining it with bread and thin-sliced ham before cracking an egg over it. Costia told her to use crème freche, which she lacked, so she settled on a dollop of sour cream with a sprinkling of shredded Gruyere. 

 

_Good luck to us, Cos._

 

Settling the ramekin inside the oven, she took a step back and waited. 

 

This was the sort of thing Costia would make on a wintry morning, surprising her in bed, or, more likely, in her practice room. Setting the plate down without a word, Costia was never a bother, just a smile when the world was closing in. Or when her mother came to visit. 

 

“ _Your posture’s horrible. You’re getting lazy, Alexandria. Why is she here?_ ”

 

She knew the ghosts would be wandering around, making themselves known, doing their best to get inside. It was pointless to try and fight them. She squared herself, checking the oven again, and did her best to focus on what was before her.

Knife block, stainless steel blade from Japan – her father insisted on only the best. He would never have been caught with some ten-dollar imitation. He took his work seriously. 

She could imagine him there, chef’s knife in hand, sleeves rolled up, a messy apron around his waist, showing her how to cut an onion.

 

_“Cut in half, careful, then slice, two, three times, turn around, hold the end the way I am, there, yes, now just bring it down and chop. Easy.”_

 

She could remember his hands, how precise they were, fast, perfect. He prepared food with care but great ease, bothered by nothing. He was tall, like his brother, but lacked the generous facial foliage of his twin. Andrew and Augustus Woods. They’d shared a cover on _Food and Wine_ , when they re-opened their father’s restaurant. She’d had a framed copy, once. Before. 

 

Her last interview, with the Irish-sounding journalist from the _New Yorker_ , questioning her, why didn’t she follow in her family’s footsteps, like her grandfather and father and uncle and cousins? 

 

_It was no way to become a great musician._

 

The journalist, perhaps intimidated by her mother, avoided _the question,_ and she had been grateful, but angry, too. 

 

“ _You haven’t been discreet. You haven’t looked out for yourselves. If this gets out, it could ruin both of you, might even ruin the family. Don’t look like that. We’ll be mocked everywhere. You have to grow up, Lexa.”_

 

Becca Woods intensity had never failed to unnerve her, to loosen every part of her, from skin to muscle to bone. 

 

“ _You will be the greatest pianist, Lexa. They’ll put your name alongside Argerich, Gould, Horowitz. It is your responsibility to yourself to make that happen. And it will only happen when you realize your weakness. And remove it.”_

 

From the kitchen, she could see where her mother would have sat at the dining table, so perfectly upright in her chair, her elbows never touching the table, her fingers never touching her plate. 

 

_Puppeteers hate that all the strings are showing._

 

The ramekin fit warmly in her oven mitt, and she smiled at the perfection of her dish. Its balance and color and smell were comforting. It was not entirely what she hungered for, but it would do. 

At the table, she pulled in her chair and let the first bite linger around her tongue, filling and melting a little. She ate slowly, her head down, unable to look at the empty chair or its ghost. 

 

For a blissful moment, she closes her eyes and imagines the taste of wet, salty skin. 

 

_You wanted Pinocchio in reverse, mother. You wanted the girl to be a doll. Sorry I disappointed you._

 

Finished, she nodded to the ghost, feeling the slightest pull of a thread that refused to break. 

 

====================================

 

The restaurant’s interior had a homey feel with dark, rough wooden floors, plush velvet green chairs and round tables with elegant white linens draped over their surfaces. A hearty fire blazed from a large stone hearth and she slouched down at a table closest to the warmth. 

The silence and emptiness felt like a gift. 

 

Aden had gone back to the kitchen to get his prep started, while Gus brought her a large, steaming mug of coffee. 

 

He seemed a quiet but discerning man, watching her with a curious stare as he wiped his hands on a towel he kept thrown over one shoulder. 

 

“Aden’s big sis, huh? Have you been in before?” 

 

Shaking her head, she raised the coffee to her lips. 

 

“Nope, first time.” 

 

Gus nodded, placing both hands on his hips. 

 

“You hungry? Let me fix you something. Make you feel better.” 

 

Clarke raised her brow as he retreated to the kitchen. 

 

_Do I look that bad?_

 

From the kitchen she could hear regular noises, the echo of a knife at work, Gus chiding Aden or Aden chiding Gus. She was pleased that they seemed to have a good rapport. 

 

Her phone buzzed and she reached into her purse for it, noting the return message from Rose.

 

_You know we’re not supposed to give out those details, Clarke. Why are you asking?_

 

She was tempted to reply that she already knew who she was, found out by accident, that she’d already done a dozen internet searches on her, finding her entire musical catalog on Amazon (on order), a handful of old interviews and concert footage on Youtube, her Wikipedia page (surprisingly empty of personal information). 

On Twitter, she found a few discussions from highbrow music fans, referring to her technique, her style, her quirky mannerisms, like the way she never looked into the cameras, always wore heavy overcoats and scarves and avoided the public, some gossip about her tyrannical mother. 

A handful of hardcore music lovers had dedicated Tumblr pages to her: not just her recordings, but her compositions as well (described as eccentric, difficult, disturbing). There were sketches of her, at the piano, her jaw raised, lips full, eyes hooded or closed. Some had surmised her loneliness: one drawing placed her from behind, in her heavy coat and scarf, arms clasped tightly behind at the elbows, standing amidst a frozen wasteland. 

 

“Try this. A little something my brother used to make when things were rough. A family favorite.”

 

Clarke looked down at the plate before her and felt a hum build up her spine, the closeness of a coincidence that could not be. 

 

Before her, a familiar sight: red shrimp adrift in a warm sea of egg yolk with thin slices of toast. 

 

Gus looked down at her expectantly, gripping the back of a chair with his large hands. 

 

“You okay?” 

 

Clarke looked up at him with a small smile. 

 

“Thank you. This looks great.” 

 

Tapping the chair, he nodded. 

 

“No problem. I gotta make sure your brother isn’t destroying my kitchen. Just call if you need anything.” 

Clarke watched as he left, disappearing into the kitchen, behind the long oak bar. On the bar next to the cash register she noticed a small display of business cards. 

 

Careful not to make too much noise when she got up, she rushed over to the bar and took up one of the cards:

 

The Tower  
Fine Dining  
Catering Available

 

Augustus Woods, Executive Chef/Owner

 

Returning to her seat in a slight daze, she laughed to herself as she took up her fork and ate, gazing occasionally out the window to watch the snowfall and wonder if another beautiful coincidence would appear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have any questions, thoughts, anything, hmu on Tumblr @rivertalesien.
> 
>  
> 
> ETA: corrected Lexa's mother's name (Becca).


	8. Fractured Landscapes in the Far-Off Forever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a very long break, an update. Many apologies for such a long delay.
> 
> If you're still reading, I hope you enjoy.
> 
> This chapter opens with another flashback session between Clarke and Lexa then progresses to their present as Clarke tells Raven her predicament and Gustus reaches out to Lexa for the holiday. Coincidences have been manifesting themselves and they will, no doubt, prove fruitful in the near future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, if you like, I love hearing from you. Comments, feedback and questions are always welcome. You can drop them here or visit me on Tumblr @rivertalesien. 
> 
> If you'd like to see this story continue, be sure to let me know. 
> 
> Thank you very much if you've stuck with it, and if you're new, I hope you enjoy.

The _pressure_.

 

Clarke clenches, hard, her thigh muscles pressing tighter, experienced enough to know if she might harm, still aware enough to stop if required. 

She slouches in the large stuffed chair in the bedroom, dressed in a simple, flimsy gown, arms thrown over the sides. Luxuriating a little, she could be more relaxed, but she feels deliciously tense and excited. The pressure is keeping her on edge, so wet it feels like a warm, sticky flood through her panties. She squeezes again and rolls her hips a little, rubbing herself against that beautiful face. 

 

“You want more?”

 

Kneeling with her face trapped tightly against the clothed, yet slippery cunt, The Commander takes a moment to breathe, intoxicated by the scent, and gives a subtle nod of affirmation with a slow lick up Clarke’s center. 

“Uh huh, nope. You know better.”

 

Clarke loosens her hold, and with one bare foot, gently pushes against the other woman’s shoulder. 

 

Face flushed deep red and wisps of curly hair damp against her temple; The Commander’s head falls forward, chagrined. 

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

Using her foot to tilt the woman’s face up, Clarke gives her a gentle tsk and a smirk. 

 

“Can you show restraint or do we stop?” 

 

“I will, I promise.”

 

Clarke regards her with a steady gaze. 

 

“This is for your benefit. Don’t disappoint yourself.”

 

Keeping her eyes lowered, The Commander nods.

 

Raising one leg over the arm of the chair, keeping her legs splayed as far as they will go, Clarke runs a hand along one exposed breast, caressing herself softly, gesturing for the woman to resume. 

 

“I shouldn’t be rewarding you, this is your one and only warning. Fail me again --”

 

“I won’t.” 

 

Those green eyes were on her now and Clarke regarded her carefully, bottom lip trapped between her teeth. 

 

“Then prove it.”

 

Keeping her hands clasped tightly behind her back, The Commander lowered her face again, fitting herself snugly against the cotton gusset, the breath from her mouth coming hot and damp. Eyes hooded, expectant, waiting. 

 

Reaching a hand between her legs, Clarke stroked the sweaty strands away from the kneeling woman’s forehead and rubbed her scalp gently. 

 

“There really isn’t much to this life, so enjoy what you can.” 

 

The woman made no response, only pressed further, inhaling deeply. Clarke’s scent was sweet and maddening, and she struggled not to taste it, not to lose herself in it.

 

A tiny shudder of relief and gratitude rippled through her as Clarke adjusted herself, bringing her legs back over her shoulders, crossing them at the lower calf. Flexing tightly, she squeezed her thighs around the woman’s head, forcing her center to drag around The Commander’s hot, needy mouth. She kept the pressure for several long moments, hips undulating, enjoying the teasing sensations and the captive view. 

 

Sensing the woman’s need for air, she let up, relaxing her grip. The Commander was breathing heavily and Clarke swore she’d never seen anything so mesmerizing. From the faint swell of tears in the corners of her eyes, leaving them clear and glassy, to the crimson burn on her cheeks and the too-tempting fullness of those lips, Clarke was torn between wanting to kiss her or just ripping her own panties off so the woman could lick her into oblivion. The ticklish, wet throb in her clit threatened to push her over the edge. 

 

_Nope, stop._

 

Not waiting for the woman to fully catch her breath, she pulled her face to her crotch again, pressing now with legs and hands, grinding shamelessly against her face. 

 

“ _Fuck._ ”

 

Releasing her suddenly and falling against the chair, Clarke smiled at the panting woman. 

 

“It’s really hard not to help myself around you. Get on your back. Arms stretched out.” 

 

Doing as she was told, The Commander lay face up, careful not to look at Clarke as she rose from her seat to lower herself again, straddling the other woman’s face. 

Hovering barely an inch, Clarke reached down and stroked the woman’s hair again, unable to ignore her body’s demands. She felt nothing but a savage lust as she drew the woman’s attention to her face. 

 

“When I was a little girl I had this stuffed dog that I loved. I named her Ellie.” 

 

A quick swirl of her hips, Clarke smirked and stroked herself hard against the woman’s mouth before she continued.

 

“I used to pretend she was a pony and I would ride her around the house all day.”

 

Another deep stroke, pressing lightly against those sinful lips; she was dripping molten lava between her legs now. She wanted to fuck the woman’s face right off. 

 

“But my favorite time was after I was put to bed and I’d press Ellie between my legs over and over and over…because it made me feel So. Fucking. Good.” 

 

Lowering herself fully, she squeezed and flexed, drawing her cunt in small, desperate circles across the woman’s face. 

 

_Now look who’s not showing restraint._

 

She slowed for a moment, giving the woman a chance to breath, before resuming, her need becoming a thing she wouldn’t deny. Green eyes flashed at her, wide, wet with longing and she continued, her clit swollen and greedy, pressing harder, more insistent. She felt her own heartbeat racing, her own breath coming in short gasps. 

 

“You want it, don’t you? You want to taste me so bad.” 

 

She flexed again, and dipped her cleft around the woman’s chin, rubbing there, hard before dragging her hips back up and around her cheeks and brows, back to her mouth where she suddenly stopped, heart humming, clit pulsing. 

 

“Do it.” 

 

With no hesitation, the woman worked her tongue frantically over the covered flesh, pushing and circling, growing more and more unsatisfied as Clarke shifted, delighting in the pleasurable torture of it, ready to give in. 

Slapping her hands in frustration against the floor, the woman craned her neck up, almost painful in that position and licked into her furiously, Clarke thought her panties would shred under the onslaught. 

 

Leaning back and away, Clarke stood on shaking legs and let the flimsy gown fall to the floor. She grasped her own breasts, kneading them for a moment before reaching into her panties and rubbing at her cunt. 

 

“On your knees.” 

 

As smoothly as she could, The Commander rose and twisted herself into a kneeling position in front of Clarke, her jaw open, eyes drawn to the body before her in total supplication.

 

“Rip them off. No hands. Use your mouth.” 

 

Leaning in, The Commander angled her mouth to take one of the string bows between her teeth and gave a sharp pull before moving to the other side and repeating the same. 

 

The panties dropped and Clarke took a small step forward, squeezing her breasts together, taunting the eyes that followed her every movement. 

 

“Make me come. Just your tongue. Do it hard.” 

 

Moments later, Clarke caught her reflection in the sliding glass doors leading to the balcony, as she clutched at damp, wavy locks, grinding and thrusting in luscious, orgasmic victory. 

 

Later that evening, she would try to capture the image in her sketchbook, as a self portrait in ecstasy, but her hands shook and in spite of the soreness of her clit, she found herself reaching between her legs, rubbing furiously, coming again to an image she was finding increasingly difficult to shake. 

===================================================

 

“So…were you comparing me to a stuffed toy earlier?” 

 

Her client was regarding her with a certain amused expression as she drained pasta in the kitchen sink. 

 

Clarke had showered and covered herself with a more generous hotel robe and was feeding herself grapes at the counter. 

 

“Maybe. You can be a little stuffy sometimes.” 

 

Holding a teasingly between her teeth, she smiled at her client’s waning expression while grating cheese. 

 

“Was playing with Ellie your favorite pastime as a kid?” 

 

Clarke winced internally knowing she really shouldn’t have brought anything of herself into the play, but there was something about this woman she trusted. And she could always deny it, later. Even the truth has a hard time proving itself sometimes. But she’d always found it hard to lie. 

 

“No, I didn’t really like toys that much. I loved being outside, looking at things. Lying on the grass, looking up at the sky. I was kind of a lazy kid.” 

 

She watched her client’s hands as they reached for a spatula, mixing the mushrooms and garlic and onions in the sauté pan, watching as she poured it over the pasta, blending it all together. There was a kind of casual grace to it. Sensual when she licked her lips. 

Clarke could hardly think for staring at that generous, ravishing mouth.

 

“I used to do the same, but I preferred being out at night, watching the stars from the roof our garage. No one ever looked for me up there.” 

 

“You liked being alone?”

 

A slosh of olive oil, a handful of grated cheese: blending again. 

 

“Mostly. My family could get noisy. I just needed to hear things in my head without it. I used to imagine this other girl on another star far away, lying on her garage roof, just like me, wondering when everyone will just shut up.” 

 

The woman laughed a little and it made one corner of her mouth slide up and Clarke would have kissed her there so softly, if things were different. She wondered what it would take. 

 

Following her client to the suite’s dining table, she reached for the chilled wine bottle, already open. 

 

“I really shouldn’t be famished after today, but I am.” 

 

Clarke tried to look offended, hiding her disappointment at the change of mood.

 

“Oh, what, I’m not a meal enough for you?”

 

Her client regarded her somewhat shyly what she hoped wasn’t real affection. 

 

“You would be my first and last meal of every day if I had a choice…but I don’t suppose you offer much in the way of calories.” 

Accepting a plate of food, Clarke took her seat, letting a bare foot run along the leg beside hers. 

 

“Ever heard the phrase _she gets sweeter the more you eat her?_ I’ll fatten you up one way or another.” 

 

The Commander’s mouth stayed open a moment too long to be polite.

 

“Good thing I forgot dessert.” 

 

===================================================

 

“I’d really rather not tell you what I’ve been up to.” 

 

Raven Reyes sits in one of the booths of her coffee shop, _Sex and Coffee_ , twirling her spoon with ease around her cup and regards her friend with a raised eyebrow.

 

“You’d rather not, but you’re going to anyway.” 

 

Easing back into her seat, Clarke holds a steaming mug to her lips, blowing softly. She chances a glance at the framed art above their booth. They’re hers, and she wonders at them a little. _Fractured Landscapes in the Far-Off Forever_ she labeled them. Raven thought they looked like something out of a Mad Max movie and she’d offered to hang them, sell them if she could. 

 

“Remember my _weird one_ I told you about?”

 

Nodding, Raven relaxes against the booth. 

 

“The little crush you ran out on?”

 

“Yup.” Popping her P, Clarke ran a chipped nail along the rim of her mug. 

 

Raven waved a hand in the air.

 

“So…what about her? Have you been naughty, Clarkie?”

 

Unable to hold back the smile, Clarke’s lips pursed, but she still wouldn’t look up.

 

“She’s famous. Kind of. I think Tris knew.”

 

Now intrigued, Raven gestures for more. 

 

“Famous? How? Actress? Anyone I’ve heard of? C’mon, Clarkie. Spill it all. What’d you find out?”

 

Taking a deep breath, Clarke exhaled and pulled her phone out of her jacket pocket, handing it to Raven.

 

“She was a pianist. Ring a bell?”

 

Raven examined the web page on Clarke’s phone, scrolling through the brief biography and discography and the one or two photos available. 

 

“Shit, Clarke. Are you sure this is the one? Seriously?”

 

“Mom and I were shopping at the mall and I saw this CD and it was her face and I just about shit myself.”

 

“I bet. She’s hot. In that child-prodigy-turned-adult-fuck-up kinda way.” 

 

As her friend read through her phone, Clarke let her gaze wander to the drifting snow outside.

 

“She’s got some issues.”

 

“Yeah, no shit. She had a twin, Clarke? This sounds kinda familiar. Died in a car accident she survived. Shit. Then both her parents buy it in a plane crash? I would lose it. Gave up performing right when she was getting serious? Holy crap. This is kinda tragic, Clarkie.” 

Taking back her phone and tucking it back in her pocket, Clarke lifted stray hairs out of her eyes.

 

“Yeah. Mom says she’d heard of her.”

 

Raven shook her head.

 

“You hit the big time, Clarke. You fucked a celebrity.”

 

“She’s not a celebrity, Rae.” 

 

“Close enough. Got a Wikipedia page. _I_ don’t have a Wikipedia page.” 

 

“I don’t have one, either.”

 

“Oh, I think you will one day: Clarke E. Griffin, born October 24, 1992, artist, illustrator, designer, controversial podcast personality, bisexual unicorn who knows way more than you about sex. Dog lover.” 

 

Clarke snorted, curling up a napkin and tossing it at her friend.

 

“The last two didn’t exactly sound right together.” 

 

“I’ll work on it. Now I’ve got a question.”

 

Nodding, Clarke continued to regard her mug. 

 

“You’ve obviously been looking this woman up. Which is a company no-no, right?”

 

Shrugging, Clarke pushed the mug away.

 

“It was an accident. I wasn’t trying to find out who she was. Once I found it, I got curious. It’s okay to be curious, right?” 

 

“You’re the expert, kid, don’t ask me. But your boss probably wouldn’t like it.”

 

“Boss doesn’t have to know.”

 

“Well, you know now. And you’ve been having issues yourself and _I know you_. You’re gonna to keep looking.” 

 

Clarke waved her off with an irritated expression.

 

“No I’m not. It’s not like that.”

 

“Oh yes it is, you forget who you’re talking to. You can’t get deep on this, Clarke. It’s not just the unprofessional thing; it can be dangerous, too. You know that.” 

 

Pulling a sugar packet from the mini-carousel on the table, Clarke began to knead it with her thumbs, nervously.

 

“I had breakfast with her uncle.”

 

Raven’s eyes grew two sizes too wide for her face.

 

“Are you fucking kidding me? How the hell did that happen? Does she know?”

 

“No, she doesn’t know. I haven’t seen or heard from her since that last time. Aden works for the guy. He owns The Tower, downtown. I had no idea, Raven, I swear. I took him to work the other day and this big guy comes out and he made this meal that she had made and I found his business card, they have the same last name. I even found this old Food and Wine article ---”

 

“Whoa. Stop. Clarke. This is going nowhere fast. Do not do this to yourself.” 

“Do what? I can’t help it if she’s got relatives who own restaurants.” 

 

“You’re nothing to her, Clarke.” 

 

Clarke felt like someone had dumped ice down her back and ripped the floor out from under her feet. She stared at Raven for a few moments, wondering if she should be angry or not. Raven’s look gave her no quarter.

 

“Look, you’re not a piece of meat and I’ll bet you’ve had clients who probably tried to propose, but this is the job. Think about who gets in there: how many of them are cheaters or abusers or republicans?”

 

“That’s not funny, Rae.”

 

“I know. The point is: do you ever bother with that stuff? You know you don’t and they don’t get to bother about you, either. That’s the deal. She’s not out there somewhere thinking of you, wondering how you are, wondering when she’ll see you again. She isn’t experiencing strange coincidences that lead her to you. This was a crush and now you’re being the weird one. Sorry. You can’t go down this road, Clarkie. You’re doing too good. Don’t mess it up.” 

 

A bell ringing above the main entrance signaled a new customer drawing Clarke and Raven out of their tense staring contest. 

A tall blonde woman with the sharpest cheekbones Clarke was sure she’d ever seen approached the counter to make her order.

 

“Oh there she is. My future wife.”

 

Clarke smiled at her dreamy-eyed friend and swatted at her hands.

 

“Lecture me about falling for clients, huh?” 

 

Raven pretended to look offended.

 

“How dare you talk about my wife like that?”

 

“How dare you talk about _mine_?” 

 

Old Clarke was back and only kidding, but Raven didn’t miss the little hitch of breath and the unfocused look. 

 

 _Please don’t let this get weird._

 

====================================================

 

“You’re always welcome, Lex. I promise it won’t be difficult or anything. We’d love to have you.”

 

Gustus watched the young woman as she arranged a series of old tape recorders around the living room and made adjustments to her mixing board. She’s ignoring him.

 

“Dad used to say that you have to find the flavor, the layers of flavors that make life everything. You can’t have one simple taste, that’s boring. You have to build. Build from things you wouldn’t expect to build from. Find what works and just keep adding layers.”

 

“Gaia will be there. I know you two always got along. We’ve invited Costia, but she’s staying in Denver with her in-laws. She asked about you.” 

 

Making adjustments to a synthesizer, Lexa continued not to look up, but at the mention of Costia’s name, she paused. 

 

“I hope she’s good. The baby’s good?” 

 

“Yeah, she’s a chubby little thing. Really looks like her mom.” 

 

Glancing up and over toward the dining room, Lexa nods only and rubs her palms against her jeans. 

 

Looking where his niece had, Gustus _knows_ , knows that nothing can change without the will to make it so. 

 

“It’s okay to hate her.” 

 

Lexa looks up then, confused. 

 

“You know who I’m talking about. She did the biggest number on you. I’m not gonna tell you that she loved you in her own way or some shit like that. I don’t know if your mom knew how to love anybody. You always deserved better. And we’d love to see you, Lex. Indra too.” 

 

Lexa shook her head as she watched the unwanted ghost circle the room, frowning. 

 

Squeezing her eyes shut for a moment, she tries to conjure up the blue eyes and blonde curls, the too-soft flesh she wanted to melt into over and over again, that woman who just _knew._

 

“Lex?”

 

Her uncle was looking at her with real concern now, such sadness and she could hardly stand it anymore. 

 

“I’m ok, Gus. I’ll think about it. I will. I promise.” 

 

Nodding, working up a smile, Gustus paced around to the door. 

 

“Hey, I couldn’t pay you much, but maybe you could play for the customers sometime. Might get some good tips.” 

 

She laughed then, not out loud, but it moved her and Gustus felt, for a moment, a flicker of hope. 

 

“I’m a little shaky on requests.”

 

“I’ll make ‘em go easy on ya.” 

 

“Thanks.” 

 

Watching from the door, Gustus paused again and took another chance.

 

“You know Anya is in town, too. She’s got some project she’s trying to put together. Give her a call maybe. I know she’d love to hear from you.” 

 

Unable to look up, still ignoring the pacing ghost, Lexa nodded. 

 

“Okay then. Please come to dinner, Lex. That’s all I ask. It’ll be alright.” 

 

She couldn’t look up and she couldn’t nod anymore, but went back to fiddling with her tape recorders. 

 

The moment was over and as he took a step outside and closed the door behind him, Gustus inhaled deeply the frosty morning air and let himself feel whole: for himself, for the season, but most especially for Lexa. 

=====================================================

 

“You should hear her _Goldberg Variations_. It’s like a religious experience.”

She hadn’t expected the young librarian to know anything about Lexa Woods, but Clarke found a small part of herself thrilling at her knowledge. 

“We’ve got the whole Bach catalogue, and Satie, but if you really want to get some insight, you have to listen to her own stuff. It’s just kind of out of this world. She was mixing baroque instruments with electronics, speaking voices, here, this one, check it out. Only a mono mix, only on vinyl, no CD was ever made.”

The librarian handed Clarke a thick album, the cover a black and white photograph of a forest lit with tiny candles, no title. 

 

“I hear she hated the cover and refused to give it a title, so they just called it after the first track: The Golden Braid.” 

 

Clarke looked over the cover curiously, not sure what she was seeking.

 

“What is it, music? Her music?”

 

“Well, yeah. It’s a canon and fugue for instruments and voices. There are spoken word elements, too, recorded conversations with scientists about how we give meaning to things. Conversations with housewives about climate change. She reads some stories. How language isn’t enough to communicate, that kind of thing. There’s this really trippy one about flavors and eating. It’s either really deep or really nuts, depending on who you talk to.” 

 

“Yeah, I better get that, then.” 

 

“Are you a student? Doing research?” 

 

Clarke followed the woman to the check out desk and handed over her library card. 

 

“Not really. I just heard something of hers and read something and thought I’d learn more.”

 

“It’s a real shame she gave it up when she did, but I think her mother pushed her too much. I remember watching this concert of hers, it was on PBS, she was about 16 and you know, she was really unconventional, wouldn’t wear anything formal, just a plain shirt and pants. I think she wore slippers, no socks. People used to think she just did it to be rebellious or get more attention, but I’ve tried that. I used to play cello. I hated the clothes. It’s so much easier to feel it and work when you can be comfortable. Things just flow, don’t they?” 

 

========================================================

The librarian’s words stayed with her all day, even as she wrapped presents with her mother and put them under the too-tall tree her father had insisted upon.

They stayed with her as she avoided being alone with her findings, avoided listening to them, knowing she’d hear her voice again. And she wanted to, so much. She wondered if she’d feel anything. If it would help her relax, if it would make her wet. She waited as long as she could.

 

She’d stolen the old record player from her dad’s office, along with his ancient, heavy headphones and laid them beside the bed. She wasn’t sure what would happen, but she needed this, needed to feel connected again. She didn’t want to question it, right or wrong, she just wanted to get lost for a while. _Nothing wrong with that, Raven._

 

She’d stripped down to just her panties and locked the door, before crawling into bed and putting the headphones on. Hitting the play button, the player made a clicking noise as the needle rose and dropped and the record spun a web of black in the dark. 

 

The sound was so quiet at first, she could barely hear it: deep, slow moving bass notes, low strings repeating the same figure over and over. Emotion rose as the sound built up, adding another layer of instruments and another layer of melody. Clarke ran her fingers gently and slowly along her arms, caressing herself, feeling the missing weight of a body in the sounds weaving through her ears. 

As the music continued to swell, adding delicate percussion, the tinkling of bells, the soft ring of chimes, she let her hands explore further, tracing her collar bone, her jaw, her cheeks, her forehead. Her lower half was pulsing already, anticipating. She touched one hand to her breast as the other descended between her legs, cupping herself gently. 

The voice made her stop and press, almost too eager, but it was her, _oh it was her._

Soft, low, mesmerizing. 

 

_When I was a child, looking up at the night sky, I used to imagine that someone lived on one of those stars, someone like me. I used to imagine that I could see her up there, looking down on myself here. I would wave at her and she would wave at me. I would send her balloons with words written on them. I would write things like “How are you today?” She would return the balloon with new words like “I’m fine, how are you?”_

_After a while, we wrote things we really meant to say._

_“I’m so afraid of not existing.”_

_“I’m so happy you’re here.”_

_“Don’t be afraid.”_

_“Don’t leave me.”_

 

In the dark she listened, her fingers rubbing slowly at herself, remembering her own childhood wishes to live in the sky, to look down on everything, to find the only one she was meant to find, the one who hides her face in a forest of nightjar, who makes her feel as if nothing ever ends. 

 

She comes, quietly, as the music and the voices dissolve into a single breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The musical inspirations in this chapter including listening to Sting's version of Come Down In Time (by Elton John) and the recorded experimental works of Delia Derbyshire/White Noise and Glenn Gould (including The Idea of North). 
> 
> Musically, Lexa's compositions would be similar to Gorecki's Symphony of Sorrowful Songs. I recommend all the above.


	9. The Supplicant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another long over-due chapter! So many apologies and thanks to everyone who is still reading and who have sent such wonderful messages. They are much appreciated! Please keep them coming!
> 
> This chapter, we add a little angst as we have another flashback to Lexa and Clarke in the hotel, but something has changed; in the present, Lexa meets up with her old friend Anya to discuss a potential new project and coincidence rears itself again, this time in an art gallery. 
> 
> Christmas is getting closer...

Even in the penthouse suite at the top of the hotel, the storm looks like the end of the world.

Rain and wind rattle the thick double panes making the room feel unsteady, as if the building could crash to the ground at any moment. 

 

With the clouds pitch black, the city lights below were hard to make out, made only worse by the rolling fog. Lexa’s stomach clenches over and over and closing her eyes or the blinds does no good. Her company is late and the company she doesn’t want keeps glaring at her from the chair in the corner.

 

“You’re scared? This is nothing. Imagine what it feels like hanging in the air, knowing you’re about to be smashed into a million pieces.” 

If she glanced out of the corner of her eye she could see her mother, immaculate as always, lounging against the leather upholstery. If she were really there, she’d have had a drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Her look would be ten times as withering. Lexa almost wanted to laugh.

 

“Imagine what it feels like flying off the road. Oh, but you know that feeling, right?” 

 

Lingering by the fireplace, Alie’s expression matched their mother’s flawlessly. 

 

“It wasn’t my fault.” 

 

“You’ll never believe that.” 

 

Three knocks. Saved by a simple code. 

 

In spite of several layers of protective clothing and an umbrella, “Claire” is soaked to the bone, though she smiles as she enters the room. 

 

“Not a good night for travel. You’re lucky I don’t mind.” 

 

Lexa glances at her mother and sister, both smirking now.

 

“Good thing she didn’t catch her death on the way here, huh, sis? That wouldn’t be your fault either.” 

 

Squeezing her eyes shut, she forces the ghosts out of the room and returns her focus on the beautiful woman dripping along the floors, taking off her coat.

 

“I’m so sorry. I should have cancelled. I didn’t think it would be so bad.” 

 

Shedding the last of her outer gear, which Lexa dutifully laid out over the dining chairs near the fireplace, the escort shrugs, running her hands through her wet locks. 

 

“It really wasn’t a problem. I have a good driver.” 

 

Ushering her over to the fireplace, Lexa feels all her anxieties turning up; she can’t stop clenching her fists, can’t stop the nauseating flutter in her chest.

 

“Are you okay?”

 

Unable to make eye contact, she shakes her head, unsure what to do next.

 

The blonde’s expression goes from concern to determination as she braces her hands on her lower back.

 

“This is what we’re going to do. Are you listening?” 

 

Holding a small breath, Lexa nods.

 

“I’m pretty cold so you’re going to run me a warm bath. Let’s start with that and we’ll go from there.”

 

===============================================

 

The tub is large with multiple jets, a _luxurious soaker_ the attendant had told her, though Lexa never used it. She knelt down and adjusted the water settings, making sure it wasn’t too hot, while the woman beside her undressed. 

 

When Lexa rose, the blonde was naked. She didn’t want to look, but the woman’s breasts were always so enticing to her. Her stomach made a small leap as she suppressed a primal urge. She took the discarded clothes to the bedroom instead, draping them over a chair close to the heater. 

 

If she had the time to think about it, Lexa would probably have wondered aloud at how strange it is that we can live hours of time, days, years even, in just a moment of daydreaming. 

 

_She could feel the weight of the blonde-haired woman’s breasts in her palms as she brushed her face slowly over and over around them, losing herself in the comfort of sensual carnality._

 

Returning to the bathroom, the blonde held out her hand.

 

“Help me into the tub.”

 

Lexa felt grateful for the woman’s directness, her lack of emotion. She could follow directions. It was about all she felt she could do for now. 

 

Taking her hand, she helped the blonde step into the tub and watched as she lowered herself in, leaning back and relaxing into the gentle heat. 

 

“This is about as perfect as it gets.”

 

Closing her eyes, the blonde rested and Lexa could not hold back her stare now, captivated by the pink flush from her cheeks down her neck, the gentle bounce of her breasts above the water, the delicate roundness of her belly. She knelt beside the tub and reached for a cloth, dipping it into the steaming pool. 

 

Blue eyes found hers as the blonde sat up and extended her arms out on either side of the tub. 

 

“You should join me, it’s nice.” 

 

The temptation was sharp, but her senses were dull and she shook her head. She would not show herself. She wasn’t important. There was nothing to see. 

 

Blue eyes stared back at her, understanding, no judgment. 

 

“It’s okay. Wash me.” 

 

Taking up a bar of soap, she lathered the cloth thoroughly as the woman stood up from the tub, water and steam dripping off her; to Lexa she looked like something out of one of her teenage dreams, an adolescent fantasy come true. She almost wished she could run back to her old room, lock the door, turn up one of her Beatles’ albums and bury her head under her pillows.

 

_Nothing is real and nothing to get hung about_

 

Still kneeling beside the tub, Lexa starts with the woman’s legs, giving them a gentle going-over, then moving up to her thighs, her hips, running lightly across the tiny curls, then slowly up her belly, circling there. Her heart starting to race with a flush developing on her own skin (she could blame it on the steam), as she situated herself on the side of the tub, running the cloth around the fullness of the woman’s breasts, feeling hardened nipples beneath her hand, avoiding the temptation to lean forward and take one in her mouth. 

The woman was gazing down at her with a gentle expression, her lower lip curled between her teeth, as the hand holding the cloth was covered with her own, bringing it up to her neck, moving slowly from side to side then down around her breasts again. 

 

“Kiss them. Be soft.” 

 

Obedient, Lexa leaned forward and placed a full, tender kiss over the swell of each breast, unable to stop smoothing her cheeks around them. 

Running a hand along her belly, the escort directed Lexa’s attention. 

 

“Now here. Soft.” 

 

Lexa’s kiss landed just below her navel, tender and sweet. 

 

“And here.” 

 

Kneeling further, Lexa presses her lips against the damp curls, careful not to allow her tongue any freedom. 

 

With a sudden turn, she is face to face with the pale cheeks of the woman’s bottom.

 

Pressing her lips again to the warm, wet flesh; she luxuriates a little as well, brushing her face against them: cheek-to-cheek.

 

“Finish my back. Then we’ll do my hair.” 

 

Rising, Lexa runs the cloth in slow circles along the blonde’s back, sweeping over the plane of her shoulders, the stream of her spine, and back again, swirling over the divot of her hips, then down over her cheeks and down the back of her legs. 

When she looks up, she can see the woman’s arms working against her front, caressing there, head tilting back, enjoying the moment. 

 

Turning again and taking her seat in the tub, the blonde’s eyes have grown dark, glancing between Lexa’s eyes and her mouth, focusing there. Tilting her head to one side, her voice is lower, heavy with want. She combs her fingers slowly through her hair. 

 

“Be soft.”

 

Lexa fills a pitcher near the tub then moves behind the blonde, supporting the back of her neck as curly damp locks fall over her arm. She raises the pitcher over the woman’s head and lets it run gently over her hair, darkening it flat. 

 

She drops a generous amount of lavender-scented shampoo onto the wet strands, using both hands to gently massage the lather into the blonde’s scalp. Soft. 

 

The woman’s eyes close, enjoying the soothing sensations. Lexa hears a soft hum or moan from her lips and when she looks down, she sees the woman’s hands caressing her own skin, her collarbone, her shoulders, her jaw, her breasts. 

 

“That’s nice.” 

 

The sensual display before her is almost too much. She can feel a resonating note in her own body, somewhere deep down, a part that doesn’t want to obey, wants to lower herself into the water, grasping the body beneath her, pressing into her, lathing her, squeezing, sucking and pawing at her until she is completely submerged, until she can’t stand it anymore, until exhaustion takes over and she sinks under and feels nothing all over again. 

 

Refilling the pitcher and rinsing the lather from the woman’s hair, Lexa is careful to keep her head supported, careful to make sure all the shampoo is out. 

 

“Help me up, please. Dry me off.”

 

The woman’s hooded gaze has her completely now, there is nothing else.

 

As the blonde stands there, naked, Lexa moves behind her, toweling gently at her hair, moving down around her shoulders and back, down her bottom, then on her knees to rub softly at her legs and feet. 

Still kneeling, she moves to the front, toweling softly but firmly as she goes, over her hips, between her legs, across her belly and breasts, the woman’s eyes never leaving hers. 

 

“That’s good.” 

 

Turning, the blonde walked towards the bedroom, turns down the sheets, and climbs in, patting the space beside her.

 

“Come on. You’re going to lay down with me for a little while.” 

 

Dropping the towel, only dimly aware of the pleasant fog that has entered her mind, Lexa lays on her side, facing away, looking out at the storm outside the windows. She can hardly hear it anymore. 

 

Warm arms wrap around her and she feels the press of the blonde’s breasts and thighs against her body. She feels warm, sweet breath against her neck. It was as if she were laid inside a soft, delicate cocoon where nothing could reach her, not even the voices in her head.

 

“Shh. I don’t want you to think about anything. Just relax.” 

 

Soft fingers caress her hair and soft lips graze her cheek. Lexa exhales quietly, letting herself fall into the gentle touches, the soothing heat the woman’s hands create along her arms and shoulders, sinking further backwards into the curve of the body holding her. 

She tenses for a moment, needing to reciprocate, but the woman senses her anxiety and presses further into her, stopping her. 

 

“No. Don’t move. Just drift with me. Relax. Relax.” 

 

Closing her eyes, she focuses on the weight behind her, pulling her in, the press of the woman's breasts and the tiny but insistent undulation of her hips against the small of her back, where her shirt rides up, where a warm wetness is already forming. The woman’s fingers stroke along her forehead and cheeks, warm breath caressing her ear with a quiet 

 

_Sshh._

 

“Can I touch you?” 

 

Lexa freezes; this is not part of the arrangement. No one does this. 

The woman’s hips are pressing tighter against her back. She feels the slick dripping along her side.

 

“I’m going to come soon. I want you to come with me. I won't look. I promise.” 

 

She didn’t know what to do, but the deepest part of her had already decided. She closes her eyes and nods. 

 

_Living is easy with eyes closed  
Misunderstanding all you see_

 

Letting herself relax, almost pretending to sleep, Lexa feels the woman’s hand descend under the waist of her pants, not exploring, just rubbing softly there, slow circles, as if she’s stroking a pet. Her voice is tender against her ear.

 

“I love it when you look at me. I love your mouth on me. I come so hard. _So hard._ You always make me feel so good. I want to come right now. I want to come in your mouth. I want to come all over your face. I’m so wet. I’m _so fucking wet_ for you.” 

 

Her hand slides harder, pressing and rubbing more insistently, Lexa can’t control the slight exhale, the quiet moan. She wants to bury her face between the blonde’s legs until she dies. 

 

“Let go. Let go with me.” 

 

She is so close. She screws up her eyes in her fists. She can’t. 

 

The blonde’s voice is like a droning, aching mantra:

 

“I’m so wet. Make me come. Make me. Make me come.”

 

The woman’s hips are rubbing, insistently, lewdly against her as soft fingers press harder and faster. A leg is thrown over her thighs, pressing, hard. Her voice chants over and over and over.

 

“Come.  
Come with me.  
Come with me.  
Come with me.  
Come with me.” 

 

She barely hears the last words as pleasure surges and cuts her in half, turning into a silent shout, a grimace, but she can’t look, can’t react but to curl into a ball until the shudders stop, until the woman’s hips still, until she removes her hand and turns away. 

 

“Thank you.” 

 

“Thank me properly.” 

 

The words feel like savage electricity down her spine. 

 

_How does she always know?_

 

Turning over, she raises herself to fit between the blonde’s legs, now spread wide and she watches, slack, as the woman plunges her own fingers, the fingers that had been touching her, deeply into her cunt, over and over.

 

“You see that? _You’re inside me_.”

 

Fixated and motionless, Lexa can only watch the display before her as the blonde fucks herself rougher and faster, her breathing hard, her hips rocking up and down before she pulls them out with a sticky, wet sound and collapses back against the pillows, both arms above her head. 

She reaches out with her wet hand and offeres it to Lexa. 

 

“Taste us.” 

 

Her fingers are rich with salt, the flavor of its own making, and she aches for more. 

 

Releasing the woman’s fingers she leans in, before the same hand catches up in her scalp and holds her fast. The blonde’s face is full of something she cannot decipher: lust or anger. So much anger. 

 

“Get on your back. Lay your head off the end of the bed.” 

 

Confused at the sudden change of pace, Lexa takes a moment before doing as instructed. 

 

The woman crawls slowly over her, hovering and leans her face down next to hers. 

 

“I’m gonna ride your face like a racing pony. Are you ready?” 

 

Lexa does her best to nod, breathless. 

 

“Tell me your words.”

 

“Yes and no.” 

 

“Show me the sign.”

 

Lexa holds out her hand, all five fingers showing. 

 

Without another word, the woman scrambles to her feet off the bed and straddles Lexa’s face, holding her head in both hands, cradling her from the neck to the crown. Her next words are little better than an furious hiss. 

 

_“Eat my fucking cunt.”_

 

Pulling Lexa’s face up into the glistening maw of her pussy, she holds her there and begins a slow but rough grind against her mouth, Lexa’s tongue stroking red-hot over her clit. 

 

“That’s good. Just. Like. That." 

 

Fucking harder against her face, the blonde’s eyes are fixed on Lexa’s as she chants over and over:

 

“Take it. Take it. _Fucking take it_.” 

 

Keeping her tongue as firm as she can, Lexa licks into her valiantly, swirling and pressing, trying to keep her on the edge, using her hands to anchor her to the bed, yet longing to reach up and grasp at the woman’s heavy, swaying breasts, or wrap around her thighs and force her further on, until they became one desperate, undulating thing. 

Lexa can feel the woman’s thighs squeezing her, hears her breath coming in rapid gasps and grunts, as she rides Lexa’s face into an obscene and pleasurable oblivion. 

Letting go of the bed sheets, Lexa reaches up and squeezes the woman’s breasts as she feels herself being pressed impossibly harder and further, as wetness floods her mouth and the sides of her face and she can hear the woman’s strangled cry of release. 

 

_“Fuck…fu…ck.”_

 

It takes several moments for the woman to collect herself, as she keeps a slowing grind against Lexa’s tongue, calming, feeling so deliciously _complete._ The woman looks down at Lexa, the tired of her eyes, and feels a fierce tenderness grip her insides as she slowly circles her wetness all over the awestruck face below her, daubing her cheeks and brow and eyes and chin, like an anointment of faith.

 

She carefully un-straddles the woman beneath her and walks back to the bathroom, emerging with another damp cloth. 

 

“Come here.”

 

Lexa is slow to right herself, feeling dizzy at first, unmoored, and then rises to the soft cloth brushing around her face and neck. 

 

“Now me.”

 

Lexa takes up the cloth and kneels down, passing it gently between the woman’s legs and thighs, cleaning her carefully but thoroughly, unaware of the vulnerable, hungry look gazing down at her. 

 

When she stands again, the blonde’s hands are suddenly pressing against her cheeks and she finds herself melting into a searing, desperate kiss, the blonde’s mouth completely capturing hers, her tongue like a hot brand, marking her.

 

Rain and wind lash the windows, a sudden crash of thunder and lightning throws shards of light around the room.

 

_It's getting hard to be someone but it all works out  
It doesn't matter much to me_

 

There is a yielding hunger in the woman’s mouth as she reaches around the blonde’s waist, under her buttocks and lifts, pausing a moment to feel the press of bare thighs against her hips, and pulls away a little, looking up, breathless. The blonde’s chest heaves quietly against hers, her face radiant with desire and something that can never be spoken. 

Laying her out on the bed as she falls with her, held in the vice of arms and legs while their mouths are like tender traps where they are willingly ensnared. 

 

=====================================

 

“Is this a local artist?”

 

The tall woman ordering the caramel latte is gesturing to the rectangular landscape above the register. 

 

The youthful barista is confused at first, then glances up and nods, swiping the woman’s card through the reader.

 

“Oh, yeah, Clarke-something, sorry. I can’t remember. She’s a friend of the owner. Does a lot of this sci-fi stuff. It’s pretty cool.” 

 

Accepting her card, the woman takes a step back as the barista goes to make her order.

 

The shop is small with a provocative name, not the sort of place she expected to find detailed apocalyptic landscapes hanging on the walls, much less a small recording booth where, according to the signage, they record the _Sex Positive Podcast_ on Monday nights. 

 

“Here ya go.” 

 

The woman gestures to the long painting.

 

“Do you know how much?” 

 

The barista glances up again, as if seeing the painting for the first time, again, then reaches for a folder by the register, flipping through its pages. 

“That one’s called After the Ark, and she’s asking $350.” 

 

“Does the artist have a business card or portfolio here?”

 

The barista hands her a tiny laminated card from the folder. 

 

“I’ll take it.”

 

Putting the folder back, the barista’s brow creases.

 

“Sorry?”

 

Summoning a deep breath, the woman gestures at the painting.

 

“I’ll buy _it_. The painting.”

 

“Oh, cool. I’ll get Raven. She handles that stuff.”

 

Nodding, the woman turns to face a booth in a far corner and lifts her cooling drink, pointing at the painting. 

The sole occupant of the booth, hunched low in a dark wool coat and scarf, gives a short nod. 

 

Raven Reyes emerges from the back of the shop, a full grin plastered on her face as she regards the patron in the leather jacket and boots, sipping her latte. 

 

_Holy shit, it’s the future Mrs. Raven Reyes._

 

“Hi, I’m Raven. What can I do ya for?” 

 

The customer seems incapable of any sort of expression and regards the smaller woman with a kind of world-weary indifference. 

 

“That one, there. I’m going to pay cash and I’d like to take it today.” 

 

Raven looks up at the gloomy scene, impressed.

 

“Absolutely. Clarke’ll be thrilled you like it.”

 

Pulling out a wallet from an inner pocket of her jacket, the woman watches as Raven grabs a small stepladder from behind the register and proceeds to remove the painting from its spot.

 

“Do you know if this artist has ever done large scale pieces? Murals? Billboards? Theatrical work?” 

 

Carefully lifting the painting off its nail, Raven takes her time, slowly lowering it to the woman’s grasp.

 

“I know she studied design in college, and she’s got two murals over at Classic Vinyl. If you’re looking for something bigger, she shows over at Free Space on Center and 9th.” 

 

“Thanks.”

 

Raven picks up the crisp bills left on the counter and sorts them into a large yellow envelope labeled “Clarke.” 

 

“You don’t take a commission?”

 

Raven shakes her head, her long ponytail whipping around her shoulders.

 

“Hell no, Clarke’s a friend. I’m guessing you’re a collector, huh?” 

 

The woman shrugs, and then glances over at her neglected companion, still nursing her drink. 

 

“I work in theater.”

 

In no way impressed but trying hard to look it, Raven slips her hands into the back pocket of her jeans and makes a full scan of the woman before her. 

 

“I’ve got some wrap in the back if you want. I can’t deliver it, but if you want to pick it up later, I’ll keep it in the office for you.”

 

“No, I can take it now, but if you could wrap it up for me, that’d be great.” 

 

Raven nods, picking up the painting and carries it back to her office. 

 

_Raven you lucky little shit, you’re going to marry an actress one day._

 

=========================================

“You bought a painting?”

 

Lexa regards her friend with some skepticism through the steam from her cup, keeping her body low against the table. 

 

Stretching back in her seat, one leg resting comfortably on it, Anya Lemaire taps the business card against her cup. 

 

“I’m allowed.”

 

“What is it?”

Taking a sip, Anya’s face offers the slightest hint of a smile.

 

“Inspiration, I think. It really fits the aesthetic I’m looking for.”

 

“Is that why you wanted to come here?”

 

Anya nods, straightens and leans into the table. 

 

“I thought it might inspire you, too. I’d really like you to read the libretto, Lex. Get a feel for it. Reminds me a little of the _Black Noise_ concept. Similar themes.”

 

Lexa examines her drink, avoiding her friend’s pointed gaze. 

 

“More end-of-the-world stuff? Sure, that’s _really_ inspiring.” 

 

Anya leans back, wondering how hard this is going to be as Lexa’s face turns toward the window and the gentle snow falling on a near-empty street. 

 

“It’s more post-apocalyptic though. There’s conflict, sure, but it centers on two women, girls, really, how they take charge, lead, rebuild.” 

 

Lexa still doesn’t look up, but a smile forms as she shakes her head.

 

“And fall in love, no doubt.” 

 

Anya shrugs. “It’s in the script. Read it. I’m obviously not doing it justice.” 

 

Lexa finally straightens and looks her old friend in the eye.

 

“You just want an excuse to build over-priced sets and blow them up in front of people.” 

 

“That too.” 

 

Both women look up as Raven approaches with the painting, now covered in a protective wrapping. 

 

“All ready for ya.” 

 

Anya sits up and lets the painting rest against her seat as Raven continues to hover.

 

“Thank you, very much.”

 

“No problem. We thank you very much. Do you two need a refill?” 

 

Anya shakes her head. “Lex? You good?” 

 

At mention of the other woman’s name, Raven glances over at the shy-looking brunette and feels her pulse quicken. 

 

_Holy. Freaking. Shit._

 

Lexa shakes her head, unaware of Raven’s playful smirk and stare. 

 

It takes a moment for Raven to recover, suppressing a laugh that has Anya raising an eyebrow.

 

“Well…okay then. You know, if you’re _really_ into Clarke’s stuff, you’ve got to see her work over at Free Space. It’s not all scifi, I mean, there’s a nude or three, but she’s got some sexy talent…I mean serious. Serious talent.” 

Anya can’t help but offer a smirk of her own.

 

“We’ll be sure to check it out. Thanks.” 

 

“Great. All right. Thanks again. Hope you enjoy the painting. Come back anytime.” 

 

Still smiling, Raven backs away from the table, unable to stop herself from glancing back and locking eyes with Anya as she heads toward her office. 

 

“I think she recognized you.”

 

Lexa frowns and rises from her seat, pulling at her scarf.

 

“That’s wonderful. Can we go now?”

 

Anya finishes her drink and regards the weather outside. “I’d like to see that gallery if you don’t mind.” 

 

Lexa shrugs and turns toward the door. “Since you’re inspired.” 

 

“And you have nothing better to do.” 

 

The women lift the carefully covered painting and walk out into the late winter afternoon. 

 

==============================

 

A small gallery nestled in between a Chinese restaurant and a cluttered looking antique store, Free Space isn’t a conventional white-walled gallery by any means. Anya feels a little thrown by the blood red walls and carpet when they enter: she almost finds herself gaping at the graphic novel drama of it and how the art works stand out. Lexa, stiff and slouched, keeps her hands in her pockets as she moves from one piece to the next, registering no emotion whatsoever. 

“Jesus. Look at this.”

 

Horror comic-style art enlarged to the size of small billboards greets them, but Lexa shrugs with indifference. 

 

“Where’s the one we’re looking for?”

 

Anya sighs, knowing she won’t get much more patience out of Lexa today. 

 

“I’m looking.” 

 

A young woman in a sheer blouse and pencil skirt strolls up to them, smiling. 

 

“Hi, welcome to Free Space. I’m Michelle. Is it your first time here?” 

 

Lexa avoids the woman as Anya shakes her head. 

 

“I’m looking for an artist I was told shows here. Clarke Griffin?” 

 

Michelle’s smile brightens and she gestures for them to follow her toward the back of the gallery.

 

“Absolutely. We have six pieces from Clarke. Right over here.” 

==========================================

 

Three large paintings take up the entire back wall, a triptych of dystopian scenes under the title _The Reckoning_ : a crashed space station half-buried in the Earth, surrounded by an army of Medieval-looking warriors in skull masks; a tall warrior woman, her hair in a tangle of braids, dressed in a leather coat with a sword strapped to her back stares out at a ruined cityscape from the top of a crumbling tower; the last painting, a throne made of gnarled branches and staves in the middle of an overgrown forest. 

Anya feels a tiny thrill of excitement, and turns to Lexa whose gaze has fallen on nothing. 

 

“Lex, this is it. This is exactly what I’m looking for. It’s like some weird daydream memory I had once. It’s so uncanny. What do you think?”

 

Lexa looks up at the paintings, her hands pushing further into her pockets; she isn’t really present and Anya can tell. This was a mistake. 

 

“I’m sorry. Really. If you want to wait up front, I’ll just be a few more minutes.”

 

Lexa nods without looking up and turns away. She is stopped by Anya’s voice. 

 

“What the fuck?”

 

Anya has turned her attention to a painting entitled _The Supplicant_ : the warrior woman in profile now, face partially visible, kneeling before a hidden figure, only a shadow over her. 

 

“What’s wrong?”

 

Anya looks to Lexa and gestures at the painting. “Look familiar?”

 

Lexa steps closer, brow creasing as she examines the figure.

 

“Yeah, I guess. A little. Coincidence.”

 

Anya stares at her in disbelief.

 

“Coincidence? You have one of the most recognizable hairlines on the planet, Lex. That is absolutely your profile. _That_ is _you._ ”

 

Lexa shrugs and steps away. 

“Maybe she’d heard of me, used my face, I don’t know. It’s just a coincidence, An.”

 

“That’s one hell of a coincidence, Lex. You sure you’ve never heard of her?”

 

Lexa looks down at the gold signature on the painting: _Clarke._

 

She lets her attention turn to another painting, a photo-realistic scene of a brown-haired woman on her back, a pair of thighs framing and partially hiding her face, its apex hovering just above, dotted in blonde curls. 

 

Lexa feels her heart contract as an unbidden image enters her mind and she quickly pushes it away.

 

“I don’t know this person, An. Don’t make such a thing of it, please.” 

 

Watching for a moment as her friend walks back to the front of the gallery, Anya tries to tie a thread together in her mind with no success. Returning to the painting of the kneeling woman, she shakes her head in awe.

 

_Coincidence my ass._

=======================================

 

The storm had subsided considerably and the darkest of the clouds had thinned and parted. Light from long-dead stars fluttered in the black backdrop, quiet and distant reminders that something always remains. Something fluttered in Lexa, too, something she had given up for lost.

 

“Do you want to talk?” 

 

The blonde hovered over her, patient, kind, and her fingers running gently along the side of her face. Not wanting to break the gentle spell, Lexa kept her eyes closed, trying to commit to memory the sweetness of the moment, the feel of the woman’s body against hers, the lingering of her scent. 

 

“I’m not very good at it.” 

 

She could sense the woman’s smile; found her own when lips pressed to her temple and her cheeks. 

 

“Maybe, I do know _something_ you’re very good at.” 

 

Lexa’s eyes opened then and searched the blue above her.

 

“I’d be very happy to do _something_ again. Right now, if you want.”

 

Turning to her side, she caressed the blonde’s soft belly and higher, with just her fingertips, waiting for permission. 

 

Laying back, the blonde stretched and pulled Lexa’s mouth down to hers, closing her eyes as Lexa covered her face in feathery kisses, as Lexa’s hand slipped quietly between her legs, as Lexa couldn’t help herself. 

 

“You are so beautiful. You taste beautiful. I love being with you. I love making you come. Let me. Let me, please. Let me love you.” 

 

The blonde tensed, eyes wide, remembering her own mistake, trying to will herself to ignore it, _it’s just a word_ as Lexa’s mouth and hands kept insisting, kept drawing her down and out and the way her heart beat was too much, too fast, she didn’t want this, not this sweetness, it was wrong. 

Rough. Blinding. Not beautiful, not sweet. 

 

She clawed at Lexa’s scalp, gripping her tightly, teeth sharp against those plump lips, drawing blood. She gripped Lexa’s head and forced her down, forced her to curl and bend and slip beneath, silencing her unwanted words in the hungry gash of her cunt. 

 

Surprised, but still obedient, Lexa made delicate movements with her tongue and caressed all the skin she could with her hands…and earned a sharp tug on her scalp. 

 

“I didn’t give you permission, did I? Hands behind your back. You don’t touch me, understand?” 

 

Lexa could only give a slight nod, her heart threatening to leap out of her throat. 

 

Her face was forced back in between the blonde’s legs and she knew now to work her quickly, with little finesse. Thighs squeezed around her head and fingers held her in place as the woman bucked her hips, fucking ruthlessly into her mouth. 

It felt like hours, but the blonde was cresting in mere moments, growling and grinding her release. Lexa stared up at her, a pleading expression. The woman reached down and caressed her hair before lifting herself away, out of the bed, ignoring the hurt expression. 

 

“Looks like we got a little carried away. It’s ten after 12. I need to get back. Sorry.” 

 

Reaching for her clothes, the blonde scurried into the bathroom and closed the door. 

 

Staring at the empty space in the bed, Lexa rose and straightened her clothing, doing her best to appear unaffected. She’d made a mistake, said the wrong thing. It wouldn’t happen again. She promised herself: _it won’t happen again._

 

The blonde emerged, dressed and rushed, making her way to the door. Lexa followed, like a nervous lepidopterist, watching her polymorphic prey flutter with escape. 

 

“Still on for next Saturday?”

 

The woman stopped, hand on the doorknob and nodded quickly, a friendly, unfamiliar smile on her face. 

“I’ll see you then. Thanks again. ‘Night.” 

 

As the door closed, Lexa could sense the movement of the walls and the dark stares of the unwanted guests at the windows. She returned to the bedroom and crawled into bed, pulling the heavy duvet over her, up to her shoulders. She closed her eyes and tried to remember. 

She closed her eyes and wished it all away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope this story is still working for you all, please let me know if you'd like more. Questions or comments are always great and you can share them with me on Tumblr @rivertalesien. I do my best to answer each one. Thanks again! 
> 
> Lyrics for Strawberry Fields Forever by John Lennon.


	10. Song for a Winter's Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas has arrived. 
> 
> In which Raven eats a little crow (haha), Lexa has a warm family reunion and Clarke is ready.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My deepest apologies for such a long delay (and then having to finish from a hospital bed), but I hope it's worth it. Thank you so much for all the support and wonderful comments over the year or so this story has been going on. I'm so grateful and I hope you keep enjoying it. 
> 
> Happiest of holidays to everyone and may we all have a better 2019. 
> 
> As always, let me know what you think and if you have any questions or comments, leave them here or hmu on Tumblr @rivertalesien.

_If I could know within my heart_  
_That you were lonely too_  
_I would be happy just to hold the hands I love_  
_On this winter night with you_

 

“Do you need to take some time off?”

 

In the back of her head, Clarke was aware that a conversation was happening, but she found it hard to focus. Her eyes were on _Echo_ , on her hands, how she had missed something, a quality that she couldn’t capture. Why were hands so difficult? 

 

“Clarke?"

 

The sharp click of the K in her name made her turn back to Rose, seated upright and tense as usual at her desk. 

“I’m sorry. No. I don’t think so. It’s fine."

 

Folding her hands in front of her, Rose gave a small nod. 

 

“Why were you asking about that one client? Why did you need to know?”

 

A flush rising up her neck, Clarke shook her head, trying to look disinterested.

 

“It was just a thing. I saw one of her CDs when I was out shopping and it was a surprise. I just wondered if Tris knew.” 

 

“Tris probably knows everything about everyone. But I shouldn’t have to tell you that, however you found out, you’re keeping it to yourself.” 

 

“You know I will.” 

 

Rose stood, balancing perfectly on five-inch heels, and came to sit next to Clarke. 

 

“So I’m going to ask you again. Are you sure you don’t need some time off? I know you’re showing at that gallery and you’ve mentioned some ideas before. I just don’t want to crowd you if you're looking at something else." 

“It’s fine, Rose. One thing doesn’t really interfere with the other. I mean, I need them both; they feed one another. Maybe that doesn’t make sense, sorry."

“I think it does. One supports the other, right?” 

 

Clarke shrugs, shaking her head.

 

“Not the way you’re thinking. I mean, yes, it does, but it’s more than that. I started because my parents’ were really down back then, because I wanted that independence. A little security doesn’t hurt, either. I saw what was happening to some of my friends, all of that mess. That whole _purge_ bullshit. That was hard to watch. And you were right there, this big idea and you had the backing and I just wanted to be a part of it.” 

“We’ve made a lot of progress, especially with our lobby and you've been a big part of it, Clarke. It’s one of the reasons why I like keeping you happy. If you decide you need to take a few months to do something different, or whatever it might be, there’s no issue."

 

“I really don’t. It grounds me. I can’t stand how temporary everything is. Everything I do is like, this one thing. It sounds really stupid, so don’t smirk, but its all part of what I am, how I communicate. One part of my life isn’t separate from the other.” 

 

Nodding, satisfied, Rose returned to her desk, retrieving her iPad.

 

“Ok then. Mr. Green is back for New Year’s Eve weekend. The party is on the lake this year, an outdoor barbecue if you can believe it. Wintry formal wear required I think.” 

 

“My Uggs with that red off-the-shoulder number?” 

 

“Go for it. He loves your sense of humor.” 

 

=====================================================================================

“What am I supposed to be seeing?”

 

From the third row, Lexa watches Anya pace the empty stage, hands on hips, head bowed, lips pursed in concentration. She stops and lifts her face to the proscenium, before turning her gaze to her doubtful-looking friend.

 

“It’s the aftermath: a nuclear event that leaves only one building in one city standing. There will be ruins, but there will be trees, too.” 

Lexa watches as the tall woman wanders the stage, her arms gesturing here and there like a painter trying to conjure the scene.

“There is a queen in the north, out for revenge, leading an army of skulls and swords. A forbidden mountain filled with monsters. There’s a lost princess looking for a home after falling from the sky. And a broken warrior, a Commander of the Blood, half human, half machine, determined to make a home from all that remains. It’s a fairytale.” 

 

“A _Commander_ huh? Half human and half-machine? Anyone I know?”

 

A twinkle. A shrug. 

 

“Well. Seems very operatic.” 

 

Anya raised an eyebrow.

 

“Ever seen the Ring Cycle?”

 

“Is that your inspiration?”

 

“Hardly, but there might be a Twilight-of-the-Gods feel. And a forbidden romance, of course.”

 

“The sky princess and _the Commander_?” 

 

“Something like that.” 

 

One corner of Lexa’s mouth turned up. Slightly.

 

“An old cynic like you writing romances. What would your mother say.”

 

“ _Post-apocalyptic romance_ , asshole. Thanks very much. And it’s going to have some 3D media, projections, that kind of thing. A little like _War of the Worlds_ , you know?”

 

“ _Forever autumn_.”

 

“That’s the spirit.”

 

“Let me guess: the Commander dies.” 

 

Anya straightened and turned back to the stage. 

 

“I’m contemplating a happier ending.”

 

“I can see why you like that artwork. It does give off that feel.” 

 

Anya nodded, gesturing again.

 

“Can you picture it on this scale? Filling the background? Spilling off the stage, even? I want the whole theater to look like it’s been bombed out.”

 

“And the music?”

 

“Tribal, ethereal, all the elements. Fire, air, blood, bone.” 

 

Crossing her arms, Lexa sank into her seat, pulling her coat around her for warmth. She didn’t realize how cold the theater was before, but now she can see her breath hanging in the air before her. She closes her eyes and she sees the ruined landscapes, the crumbling tower in the middle of the crumbling city. She sees the darkened skies and hears the scream of the girl with blonde hair falling and she’s running toward her, through the woods, up the dark mountain and the girl is there, standing before a forbidding door, her back turned, and she wants to see her face, knows the face she wants to see, but there is a sound and she must open her eyes.

 

“Any thoughts you’d like to share?”

 

Lexa shakes her head quickly and stands.

 

“I can’t hear it yet. I’ll need a few more days. After Christmas.” 

Anya nods and makes her way off the stage, down a small flight of stairs.

 

“That’s good. That works. I’m going to get a hold of that artist and have a chat with her, see what she’s on for. Maybe you come along, too?”

 

Lexa kept her face as neutral as possible, but she knows Anya noticed the sudden eyebrow raise and the hitch in her breathing. 

 

“We’ll see.” 

=======================================================================================

 

The bell over the coffee shop door jingles as Clarke rushes through, out of breath, pulling at the scarf around her neck. 

The shop is packed, but she navigates through the tables and bodies to the front where Raven is tracing a snowman through steaming foam while a young boy watches, excited. 

 

“Which one did you sell?”

 

Raven ignores her, smiling at the boy as she hands him his cup of hot chocolate. Clarke looks up and notices the blank space on the wall and smiles.

 

“After the Ark? Someone _bought_ that?” 

 

Wiping her counter, Raven nods, smirking a little, like someone with a secret she’s about to reveal. 

 

“Yup. Someone liked your hellscape.” 

 

With no more customers in line, Raven leaves the bar to her young barista and gestures to Clarke to follow her to the back. 

In her office, Raven picks up a manila envelope and hands it to her friend.

 

“They paid cash? Wow.”

 

“She was really interested.”

 

Dropping to her chair behind her desk, the shop owner lifted her leg onto a small stool. Clarke sank into a green leather couch opposite, opening the envelope. 

 

“And you told her about the gallery stuff?”

 

Raven sat back, picking the skin around her thumbs.

 

“Yup.”

 

The flat tone had Clarke looking up, sitting back to regard her friend’s change in demeanor. 

 

“So? What’s wrong?”

 

Examining her hands, Raven did not look up.

 

“I’m never wrong about stuff, you know.”

 

Clarke smiled, amused at her friend’s embarrassment. 

 

“I’m guessing that’s changed.”

 

“You could say that.”

 

“Going to tell me what happened?”

 

Pushing her chair back slightly, Raven folded her arms across her chest and gave Clarke a deep look.

 

“Remember when I kinda went off about you looking up that client? How she wasn’t doing the same thing, how there’s no weird coincidence that would bring you two together?”

 

Clarke put down the envelope beside her and folded her own arms, taking a deep breath. 

 

“Yes?”

 

“What if there is? Coincidence, I mean. Something coincidental that happens and you two just happen to land in one another’s orbit again. What would you do?”

 

Clarke felt exhausted suddenly and threw her hands up, running one through her hair.

 

“I don’t know, Rae. I mean, my brother works for her uncle. It’s a small world. Are you trying to tell me you sold my painting to her? She was here?”

 

Raven’s jaw fell a little as she leaned forward across the desk.

 

“She was here, Clarke. She didn’t buy the painting, but the person she was here with did. Remember the future Mrs. Reyes?” 

 

Clarke’s face had turned up into a perfect scrunch of confusion, and she shook her head.

 

“That tall woman who came in the other day? Seriously?” 

 

Raven turned the monitor on her desk toward Clarke. A Google image search featuring an awkward-looking Lexa Woods in a dark overcoat and scarf standing next to a more glamorous-looking woman, smiling at the camera.

 

“Her name is Anya Lemaire. Turns out she’s a director. Makes a lot of edgy theater and short films. She did a kind of documentary with Woods called The Golden Braid. Won a Peabody.” 

 

Clarke stares at the picture, frowning.

 

“You did a _Google_ search?”

 

Raven sits back, chagrined. 

 

“I couldn’t help it. When I saw Woods sitting in the booth, I almost lost it. I mean, what is going on in your world, Clarke? It’s pretty wild and maybe, I don’t know. Maybe you should just go with it.” 

 

Clarke’s eyes widened a little, but she stood and picked up her envelope.

 

“This isn’t a big city, Raven. Chances are we’ve walked by these people every other day of our lives and we only notice because now there’s a reason to notice. I don’t know. All I do know is that I have wrapping to do and it’s not getting done. What’s all that for?”

 

Clarke gestures to the metal food trays with lids stacked in a corner. 

 

“Christmas dinner for the homeless. Big community event. We’re volunteering again this year.” 

 

Clarke nods, turning toward the door.

 

“Aden’s volunteering too.” 

 

“Maybe I’ll see you there.”

 

“Count on it.” 

“Merry Christmas, Clarkie.” 

“Feliz Navidad, Reyes.” 

 

Waving her envelope, Clarke disappears leaving her friend biting her nails, gazing at the strangers on her screen before she abruptly closes the browser. 

 

“Let’s not make it weird, Raven." 

============================================================================

 

The snowfall is so heavy and constant on Christmas Eve that Clarke is certain her parent's roof is going to cave in.

It creaks. 

While her father has assured her that it’s only reindeer, and Aden swears the architectural integrity of the house is _only_ compromised over _her_ room, Clarke feels a steady unease that a younger version of herself would be deeply resentful of. 

 

She sits at her small desk in her old room gazing outside at the neighbor’s Christmas lights and the snow and remembers being 8 and too excited for Christmas. 

No, she thinks. It wasn’t Christmas. It was the snow. It was the promise of something new and different. Of things being better. Everything can be better when you’re 8.

Her parents were never very good with money, her father especially. His penchant for running up credit card debt got them in trouble more than once, but it also got her whatever toys she wanted at the time or, later on, the clothes. He always meant well, but the many times it lost them a house because they couldn’t pay the mortgage put a lot of stress on the family, especially her mother. Ending her private practice when she couldn’t cover the insurance, or nurses’ wages and going into the corporate medical system might have saved them from penury, but there were times when Abby Griffin looked like she might chuck it all out the window. Clarke knew her parents loved one another, but it was a lot of work and sacrifice she never really understood until now. 

 

A gaggle of Girl Scout carolers made their way through the neighborhood, in spite of the struggle to wade through the nearly two-feet of snow. A cheerful _Winter Wonderland_ wafted up to her room and a smile emerged, all on its own. 

Sleigh bells were ringing and the snow was glistening, and she desperately wanted to be happy that night, to not feel the creeping loneliness that always seem to prey on her that time of year. What would it be like, just once, to walk with someone, hand-in-hand along the snow-covered sidewalks and gaze at the lights and hum the songs and feel the warmth of just _belonging_? 

What if it were someone like _her_ with her sad, green eyes and her gentle hands, gazing at her as she did once, twice, maybe every time she saw her? A look that could make her wet and hot, burning furiously and gently all at once. A look she would smother under her own weight, pressed to her until she could almost die. 

She wanted to break herself for imagining it at all, for wasting time on impossible things.

 

The slight buzz from her phone brought her back and she glanced at the message from Michelle from Free Space.

 

Michelle:

_So sorry to bug you Clarke, I totally spaced this one, but we sold The Reckoning the other day and the buyer is very interested in meeting with you for a commission._

A second message popped up:

_Her name is Anya Lemaire and it sounds like a theatrical project, an opera maybe? She’d like to meet with you after the New Year, the 4th works for her if it works for you, I tentatively scheduled for noon here at the gallery. Anywhoo, we’ll be open again on the 27th if you want to come in for your check. Merry Xmas!_

 

For a long moment she stood, staring at the messages, until it occurred to her that if Anya Lemaire bought a painting of hers from Raven and Raven sent her to Free Space, then Anya would have seen her other artwork, too and if Lexa Woods was with her, Lexa Woods might have seen herself and that might have led to their own Google search and while she’s no celebrity, her face is on the gallery’s website and Raven's podcast…and Clarke found herself considering the possibility that some very _impossible things_ just might be in her future. 

 

========================================================================

_Half-human. Half-machine._

 

She’d worn the same clothes for three days now and tomorrow was Christmas and she’d promise Gustus she would try. She went through the closet in her new bedroom and selected a dark sweater, pants and a soft linen shirt. She touched each one gently, laying them out on the bed in an orderly fashion. She stared at them for several moments, letting her mind go blank as she prepared for the next step. 

Peeling her clothes off and dropping them to the floor, she stiffened. Careful to avoid touching the healing fissures along her body, she turned toward the full-length mirror in the corner behind her. She always had to look. She wouldn’t touch, but she always had to look.

On much of her right side from her shoulder, down her arm and along her ribs, the remains of the accident that took her sister’s life lingered, permanently. The disfigured flesh, puckered and pink-raw, reached across her torso and down her hips, stopping along her upper thighs. Costia’s tattoo covered the scars on her right arm, and she let her fingers touch it, tenderly, with gratitude. When she'd woken after the accident, she’d been scared that her hands would be useless, but they had been completely spared. Not that her mother cared at all. What did it matter that she survived, that she might still be able to play? 

Alie is gone. 

 

Turning slightly, out of the corner of her eye, her sister sat on the bed, reading. They shared so many Christmas Eves the same way: tucked up together in one of their beds, reading ghost stories to one another. Even as children, she loved the sound of her sister’s voice.

 

_The snow was falling harder and faster, the girls were caught in it, and they could not see where they had been. They had to find shelter, or it would be the end of them._

_Just as they were about to lose hope, they saw a light ahead, a small house with a chimney and it looked like no one was home._

_Inside, a hearty fire burned in the fireplace and there was a wood stove with a pot full of hot stew. When their bellies were full and their cheeks red with warmth, they explored further and found a small bedroom with a bed just the right size for two little girls. They slept until morning._

_In the early dawn the girls rose and returned to the kitchen where they found, to their deepest surprise, the stew was replaced with bowls of steaming oatmeal with cinnamon sprinkled on top. The fire needed no tending and in the window corner of the small living room, there stood a brightly decorated Christmas tree. Beside the tree was a small piano and on the piano was a small violin._

 

Alie had often made up stories about them, as if they were orphans, cared for by invisible families of ghosts that gave them no trouble and made no demands. 

 

 _Now I'm the orphan and you're the ghost._

The ghost closed her book.

 

“You have a family, Lex. Let them take care of you.”

 

In her chest, an ominous flutter fans along her insides, pushing her to dress quickly and leave the room. 

 

Her feet feel swollen and numb, as if she'd been walking barefoot in the snow all day. She closes the door on her old room, settling herself on the pile of blankets on the floor beside the piano. She reaches under a pillow for the small locket and opens it, revealing the single golden hair coiled inside. 

Wound around a single finger, she touches the hair to her lips and looks up at the woman who isn’t there, standing in the doorway, naked but for the small towel wrapped around her from behind. She is as glowing and voluptuous as Lexa’s memory will allow or embellish, and she wants to crawl to her, rest on her knees, her face snug in that warm, wet space between her legs. She lets herself soak in it for just a few moments, until the flutter in her chest has almost completely vanished.

Anchoring herself against the wall, she reaches for her laptop, resting on the floor and opens a browser.

 

Google finds Clarke Griffin on a Deviantart page not updated since 2012. Erotic art and bdsm imagery exist alongside alien landscapes and imaginary space stations. The Free Space website features a small portrait, a selfie, probably. The selfie gives her a reverse image search that leads to pictures from a charity ball. The site never knew her name; she is only labeled as “guest." 

She looks up the Sex Positive Podcast from the coffee shop but there are no images or videos. There are several podcasts with “Claire” as a guest and she doesn’t hesitate before clicking on the most recent. 

 

_“Mothers can pass on shame to their daughters without thinking about it at all. It's so ingrained into who we are, that our bodies are open to any and all criticism, that we are always somehow less and that’s such a convenient narrative, isn’t it? Always has been. If you’re in anyway different, there’s always someone who feels they have a right to question your difference, belittling it, usually. There are people who hold on too tightly to a reality that really isn’t friendly to anyone. But it’s all they know.”_

 

An alert on her phone has her checking her messages. 

 

Anya: 

_That artist is willing to meet us in January. Would you like to be there?_

 

She texts back:

 

_I was wrong before. I do know her. I don’t know if she'll want to see me. This might be awkward._

 

Anya:

_Do I want to know how you know her or why she might not want to see you? When you say awkward, could this be a problem?_

 

_I really don't know._

 

Anya:

_Let’s do the professional thing. Think about being there. I want this to happen, Lex. I need you and I want her. We’re going to make something stunning. Get some rest and I’ll call you after the New Year._

======================================================================

 

 

Decorative paper strewn around the small living room, the Griffins celebrated their Christmas morning in a messy, cheerful style. Aden, so pleased to now own a pair of new jeans, had to strip off his pajama pants then and there. 

“Oh yeah, this is the shit. Check it out.”

 

“Should have been a supermodel, little bro. I’m telling ya.”

 

Giving his family his best “innocent ingenue" poses, Aden bit his lower lip and batted his lashes.

“Wouldn’t this tush look great on the cover of Rolling Stone?"

 

Abby laughed and threw an empty box at him while Jacob took pictures.

 

“How did I wind up with such degenerate children?”

 

Clarke threw a wadded up ball of wrapping paper at her mom. 

 

“You love us.” 

 

Rising from her seat on the couch, her hair in a loose braid, Abby made her way toward the kitchen and the half-empty coffee pot.

 

“What time do you have to leave, Aden? Do you want me and dad to give you a lift?”

 

Aden shook his head, pulling a Seattle Seahawks hoodie over his torso. 

 

“Nope, Clarke is giving me a ride. I’ll have to head out after dinner. We’ll meet Gus at the restaurant and start setting up by the Mission.”

 

Clarke joined her mother in the kitchen, pouring herself another cup of coffee.

 

“Do you need me to stick around and help?”

 

Pulling on his new Nikes, Aden shook his head. 

 

“Nah, we’re good. Got a lot of people. You can stick around if you want though.” 

 

No one noticed Clarke turning away to tap her nails against the mug, or the anxious look as she contemplated the possibilities of that evening, of all the future evenings ahead. 

==============================================================================

 

 

The home of Gustus and Indra Woods was not an opulent affair befitting a successful restaurateur and retired Army Colonel, but what it lacked in finery it made up for in coziness and comfortable furniture. Lexa had always loved visiting as a child and she found a dozen tiny stirrings of bittersweet memories as she sat beside the stone fireplace gazing at the oversized Christmas Tree stuck snugly in its corner. 

Her eyes couldn’t help straying to the pictures on the walls, mostly of Gustus and Indra and their girls, Costia and Gaia from childhood to adulthood. Pictures of grandparents she barely remembered and even two or three of her and Alie as children. Her father was represented. Her mother was not. 

She could hear Gus and Indra chatting in the kitchen as they prepared their desserts. Nothing said was terribly new.

 

“I know he was your brother, I loved him too, but the man was a total failure when it came to protecting those kids. That woman was telling Lex she should have _died_ and he just stood there and _shrugged_.”

“Andrew couldn’t confront. He never was that kind of person. She took advantage of everybody.” 

“She went around this house telling everyone we were all going to be ruined because of a rumor.”

“It was more than that.”

“It was innocent and you know it. I always believed them. They grew up together. They were close. Those hacks didn’t know anything. I wouldn’t be surprised if it was Becca herself who tipped them off.” 

 

Tuning them out, Lexa wandered over to the small upright and let herself just sit and stare at the slightly dusty keys.

 

“It’s been so good seeing you, Lex."

 

Emerging from the hallway, Gaia took a seat next to the piano. 

 

Lexa looked over at her cousin, saw the gentle understanding in her eyes. 

 

“I’m sorry."

 

Gaia shook her head and put a hand over hers.

 

“We don't do that. You never need to apologize. Not to us.”

 

The musician traced a long finger across the keys, and then tapped out a hint of a minor melody.

 

“I feel like I bring all this baggage with me, no one needs that.” 

 

“We've all got history, Lex. But it wasn’t always bad. I remember so many good times. I wish you could remember them, too. You deserve to."

 

“I’m trying.” 

 

“Do you mind me asking why you were staying in that hotel for so long?”

 

Rising from her seat, Lexa paced a little before dropping into an aging, stuffed chair by the fireplace. 

Picking at the old leather, she shrugged, her eyes on the floor. 

 

“I just needed something different. I didn’t want to be anywhere I had been. Didn’t want to be a bother.”

 

“You were never a bother, but I understand if you didn’t want to be around bad memories.”

 

Lexa shook her head. 

 

“Not exactly. I mean, it didn’t really work out like that. They never really go away.” 

 

“They will, one day. You just need to give yourself time.” 

 

“Yeah.”

 

“I mean…five months in the same hotel room isn’t exactly a vacation. Maybe travel somewhere. I know the idea might be daunting right now, but sometimes a totally different atmosphere can work wonders.” 

 

Lexa looked up, eyes misted, biting her bottom lip.

 

“Do you think it worked for Costia?”

 

Gaia’s smile dropped a little but never left. 

 

“I think Costia is exactly where she wants to be and it wasn’t because of anything between you or what your mom did. She fell in love and now she has a family. And I know she’d like you to get in touch.” 

 

Wiping at the tears that were streaming, Lexa sniffed, gave a small laugh and sat back.

 

“People still do that, huh?”

 

“Do what?”

 

“Fall in love.” 

 

“They do.”

 

Lexa nodded, her mind filled with a face she found too beautiful for words. 

 

“I think it would be nice.” 

 

“You’re young, Lex. It’ll happen if you want it to.”

 

Emerging from the kitchen with slices of pie, Gustus and Indra broke the mood with warm smiles.

 

“It is that time of year again folks!”

 

Gaia got up and kissed her mother on the cheek taking the warm plate and fork from her. 

 

“Looks good!”

 

“You never give me kisses. Has my youngest gotten sentimental in her old age?”

 

Gaia smiled at her mother then to Lexa.

 

“I just love you guys. Merry Christmas.”

 

Gustus scowled as he handed Lexa her plate.

 

“Oh, fine, leave me out why don’t you.” 

 

Gaia pinched his arm as she gave him a loud kiss across his cheek. 

 

“Like I’d leave you out.”

 

Lexa looked up at her family and smiled. 

 

“I love you guys too. Very much.” 

 

They were all quiet for a moment, before Gustus marched back to the kitchen with purpose.

 

“Forgot the wine.”

 

Indra regarded her niece. 

 

“Gus is heading to the restaurant to help the volunteers close up. Want to go with him? I think he’d like you to go. He loves spending time with you.”

 

Lexa shrugged. “Sure. That sounds fine.” 

 

Returning with the wine, Gustus smiled then frowned again.

 

“Forgot the glasses.”

 

The women watched as he turned again, Indra rolling her eyes.

 

“Maybe remember the wine opener too, _Chef_.” 

========================================================================

 

 

The volunteers are cheerful as they clean the used cookware, sorting and putting their supplies away. 

Aden pushes a cart with more gear into the rear of the Tower’s vast kitchens, followed by Clarke, carrying a pile of soiled linens. Other volunteers are busy breaking down foldable tables and chairs and lining them neatly in storage lockers. 

 

“When you’re done just head to the rear ballroom. We’ve got some treats for everybody.” 

 

One of the volunteers looked up, confused.

 

“This place has a _ballroom_? Like dancing and shit?”

 

Aden shook his head.

 

“Back in the day, yeah, they had big society events here. We just use it for catering large groups now.” 

 

After dropping her load in the soiled linens bin, Clarke found her brother and put an arm around his shoulder.

 

“Do I get a treat too?”

 

“You just gave me a ride.” 

 

“That’s not worthy of a treat?”

 

Aden swatted at her and pointed her out.

 

“Whatever. Just follow the Christmas lights. I’ll be there in a sec.”

 

She had seen the interior of the main restaurant but not the rest of the building; built in the 1920s, it still had some elements of its Art Deco past with it’s rectilinear geometric designs and columns and futurist stuffed chairs. The ballroom, though, was something else.

As she entered, the first thing she saw was the large, diamond-point gothic arch windows with their cross-shaped embossments. A u-shape of tables draped in fresh linens with platters of snack foods and festive treats filled the center of the room. Volunteers milled around chatting and enjoying themselves in the holiday atmosphere that included a Christmas tree that must have reached the top of the 20-foot ceiling. It reminded Clarke a little of the ballroom in _The Poseidon Adventure_. She wondered if a tsunami hit if they could climb up the tree to safety. 

Taking in the rest of the space, she wandered to the parquet dance floor and to the gentle music coming from in front of her. 

It looked like it was designed for a royal coronation, like all it needed was a throne on the low, wide stage, draped in red carpet. Instead, there was a piano. 

And at the piano, was a pianist. 

 

It wasn’t a traditional tune the musician was playing, but it had always been a favorite. 

 

“I never thought I’d see you again.”

 

Lexa stopped playing. The air in the room had grown very warm and still and she wasn’t sure she could hear the others: they sounded miles away. Her shoulders dropped and her skin ran hot and cold as she turned toward the once-familiar voice. 

 

“I thought you didn’t want to see me.” 

 

Clarke looked down, chagrined, but approached the stage and made a space for herself at the side of the piano.

 

“What I wanted wasn’t appropriate at the time and I am very sorry.” 

 

Lexa’s eyes strayed to her hands, paused at the keyboard.

 

“I think that’s true for me, too.” 

 

Clarke couldn’t help it if her hand itched across the smooth lacquer. 

 

“I don’t think its just coincidence that we’re here, do you?”

 

Lexa’s mouth formed something of a smile as she shadowed chords with her fingers.

 

“I think…you have a friend who sells your paintings and I have a friend who bought your paintings and now my friend wants you to make some designs for her next production. I’m not sure how the restaurant fits in, though.”

 

“My brother works here.”

 

Lexa nodded, smiling.

 

“Okay.”

 

She found it hard to look up from her hands but she knew the blonde was only scant inches away and if there hadn’t been dozens of people in the room she might have been on her knees already. 

 

“You’re very good.” 

 

Clarke raised an eyebrow, and then understood.

 

“I’m okay. I love what I do. What about you? Are you going to take part in whatever it is your friend has planned?”

 

Lexa nodded again, her eyes still on her hands.

 

“I think so.” 

 

“I guess that means we’re going to be seeing one another.” 

 

Lexa looked up then, her eyes caught by the gentle flurry of snowfall outside the tall windows and the way the light caught the fairest hints of blonde and blue before her.

 

The way the woman’s hand touched her cheek, her thumb running over her lips. 

“Lexa?”

 

The musician felt like her heart was caught in her throat. She nodded.

 

“I just wanted to say your name.” 

 

Pressing her cheek against the warm hand, her eyes fell then looked up again, something like hope blooming inside.

 

“Clarke.”

 

The soft inflection had the blonde’s heart in knots. She couldn’t have looked away even if the sky were falling. 

 

“I just wanted to say yours, too.” 

 

_And to be once again with you_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lyrics for Song for a Winter's Night are by Gordon Lightfoot, but Clarke's favorite version is by Sarah Maclachlan. 
> 
> If you're curious, there was a musical/opera version of The War of the Worlds and if you're familiar with The Moody Blues you might know the one hit from the musical, recorded by MB's Justin Hayward, "Forever Autumn."
> 
> ETA: So what do you think? Does it feel finished to you? Do you think there should be more? I appreciate your thoughts!


End file.
